


The Boathouse Summer

by Julie_Anne



Series: The Clive papers [3]
Category: Maurice (1987), Maurice - E. M. Forster
Genre: 1930s fashion, Clive could be less polite, From Clive, Gen, Growing Up, Journaling, Lots of 30s marxism, Return to the boathouse, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-05-07 10:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14669307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julie_Anne/pseuds/Julie_Anne
Summary: It is 1933 on Clive's side of the world. Summer of 1933 was exceptionally sunny, I checked it out. Leslie, now 15, and Irene spend their summer holidays at home. Leslie is growing and forming his own mind about the world, and brings home some very unorthodox books to read. He may (or may not) explore his father's library. And what better place to read in quiet solitude and cool in the shade than the boathouse?Clive and Anne will have their by now usual week at Juan-les-Pins. Robert is still there. Let's see where it may take us...The day I began writing about Clive I should've had my head checked out! He won't let me be. Every time I finish a part of these «Clive papers» I get a good idea to carry them further...





	1. Books and Bullseyes

On a sunny July afternoon, Leslie sat on a second class compartment, valiantly struggling with “The Communist Manifesto”, a small cheap brochure he had covered with brown paper, both to protect the flimsy cover it and to conceal it from preying eyes.

Before Easter, at school, he had been moved to tears by Engels' “The Condition of the Working Class in England”, which he had borrowed from the Mechanic's Institute Library in one of his weekly outings to the nearest town. During Easter break, he'd had a long talk with his father who had tried to put his mind at rest, assuring him it was no longer as bad as the book had exposed. As it had happened before, ever since Leslie's curiosity had driven him to ask his father about political matter, Clive hadn't been able to lie to his son. Yes, he had been compeled to confess, there was still a great deal of poverty and the ongoing crisis had not helped.

Not wishing to futher embarass his father, Leslie had decided to proceed his investigations on his own. He had found the brochure in some small bookshop and Engels' name had caught his eye, in spite of having only ever heard _communist_ whispered almost as some dirty word. His instinct had told him that it would be advisable to hide the book's cover. The son of a Conservative MP, now junior under-under-secretary of something about Education wasn't expected to read that kind of thing, that much he knew.

This book wasn't nearly as touching. It was at the same time far too simple, and much too complex, and was putting up quite a fight.

_«(...)The modern bourgeois society that has sprouted from the ruins of feudal society has not done away with class antagonisms. It has but established new classes, new conditions of oppression, new forms of struggle in place of the old ones._

_Our epoch, the epoch of the bourgeoisie, possesses, however, this distinct feature: it has simplified class antagonisms. Society as a whole is more and more splitting up into two great hostile camps, into two great classes directly facing each other — Bourgeoisie and Proletariat._

_From the serfs of the Middle Ages sprang the chartered burghers of the earliest towns. From these burgesses the first elements of the bourgeoisie were developed.(...)»_

As the train approached the station, Leslie closed the book and wondered who would be waiting for him. Might be Mummy and Irene, though he knew Mummy didn't like to drive. But Baynes would drive, of course. Might even be Daddy, if he had already left London. Could they have brought Jerry, his dog? Leslie missed Jerry a lot at school.

If he wanted to be honest, he missed home a lot! School was alright, but it had an impersonal touch he disliked. He had discovered soon enough it paid to be discreet: he was good in classes but only average at games, and he had kept as much to himself as it was fit not to call much attention. He hated all kinds of cruelty but he knew the others would have massacred him if they had found out how sensitive he really was, so he had had to put up a good act, and had been clever enough to divert things in order to avoid having to bully or terrorize the younger ones. He wasn't ever bullied, he sounded to self assured and down to earth for it.

By now, of course, he needed not pretend anymore. He was small but strong and fit, and he could throw a good punch if the need ever arise, as he had proved more than once. After all, he had attended the village school for six years, and learned some good fighting techniques with his village friends, including some clever ways to use a bigger boy's size and strength to his own advantage. He was top of his class in English and Latin, and History. He was close to the top in all other subjects. He was a fast and fearless swimmer. Above all, he was a decent fellow, and that carried some weight, both with the younger boys and the sixth-formers.

The train stopped in a big cloud of smoke. Leslie picked up his small bag, pocketed the book, and hopped onto the platform. He looked behind to make sure his trunk was being unloaded, and then he searched the platform. Before he'd had time to really see anyone, Jerry had appeared out of thin air and begun jumping around him, barking like mad.

\- Jerry! There you are, old boy! Oh, I've missed you so much...! Who brought you?

Above the dog's crazy barking, he heard a clear voice call him.

\- Leslie! Leeees!

Looking up, he saw Robert, in his bottle green uniform, and Irene, in her old and now seriously short overalls and a pink shirt, waving at him.

\- Hello, Robert! Hi, Scrawny Ankles! Thank you both for bringing Jerry!

Irene hugged her brother, mumbling «Scrawny Ankles, huh? I'll show you!» but she laughed anyway. Robert touched his cap with a smile.

\- Glad to see you back, sir! The car is outside I'll just go and see your trunk is safely secured to the back. Miss Irene, don't forget your mother's list. I'll meet you at the store.

Irene held Jerry by his collar, trying to keep him from following Robert. The dog yelped a bit, but then decided to stay with Leslie. His loyalties seemed a bit divided.

\- Sit, silly dog! Robert will be back! - and to Leslie – He loves Robert! Still, you can't imagine how excited he got when he heard your name! We were forced to bring him along, he simply wouldn't get out of the car!

She searched her pockets and produced a piece of paper.

\- Come, Les! Let's leave your bag in the car. Mummy asked me to go the store, to fetch a couple of things Daddy ordered for their week abroad, a new notebook and some film for his camera, and I need shoe laces. I've been wearing your old derbys and Jerry chewed the laces to death! Oh, I'm so glad to have you back! It's been a beastly first week of summer break, with the summer cleanings and no one to talk to.

Leslie left the bag inside the car, and they both walked to the village store, followed by a very happy and excited Jerry. Even the trip to the store was more or less routine: Daddy spent so much time in London and nearly always forgot to buy something and had to order it through the village store.

\- Who's in for the summer?

Irene wrinkled her nose in a funny face.

\- No one! Haven't you heard a word of what I just told you? We're all alone! The Reverend took Marie to London to have drawing classes at some summer Art School! He actually offered to take me along but let's face it: Marie is really talented, I can only draw decently... - Irene never let anything get in the way of truth - Aunt Clarice took Emily and the little ones to the seaside. Maud is spending a fortnight with some friend from school, and after that she's off to Italy with some lady cousin of Uncle Archie's, lucky devil. Mummy and Daddy are going to Juan-Les-Pins in two weeks.

\- Better that way. I have much reading to do this summer!

\- New book? - Irene asked, looking at her brother's pocket.

He sounded somewhat embarrassed as he pleaded:

\- Don't tell at home about my reading, Irene, please! It's political stuff and I don't want to quarrel with Daddy over it.

She opened her blue eyes wide in awe.

\- Oh, I see... Will you tell me about it later, then?

\- Of course I will! It's really interesting, though I'm not certain I'm getting all the meanings right. Maybe if we try together...

Irene worshipped her older brother. The suggestion that she might actually help him understand a difficult book made her shine with pride. Leslie wasn't joking though. Irene might be younger, but he knew girls mature earlier and she was very clever. Her rather unconventional and progressive school encouraged students to search, question and be curious.

\- I say, Les... - they were right in front of the village's store – Do you think we can possibly have some bullseyes? I haven't enough money... Mummy said I should have been more careful about Jerry so she's making me pay for the shoelaces...

Leslie rummaged through his pockets and fished out a few coins.

\- I have some left from the train ticket. Daddy always sends me enough for a first class but the train from London is almost empty, so I buy a seat in second and keep the rest of the money! Here, this is more than enough...

*******

Leslie had had an uncommon way to his current, though still budding, political views. It had been a mixture of childish curiosity, inquisitive spirit, young age limitless generosity and the influence of happy and loving family life in his early years. He had never heard a harsh word, had never witnessed his parents quarrel or be rude to one another or to the servants, and had never been lied to by the grown ups he admired.

In a way, he had grown almost unscathed by the class system. He had been born and grown up in a house with servants, yes, but that word had no humiliating meanings attached in his mind. Martha was as close to his heart as Mummy, Daddy, or Irene, and Robert, Millie and Lilly, Cook or Mr. Clarkson much closer than Grandma Durham whom he saw once or twice a year, at the most. He'd sooner go rowing with Robert, when Daddy was at home, than let himself be dragooned into endless ball games with his cousins Samuel and Henry.

When he arrived at public school, having to clean shoes, light fires or make tea and toast for the older boys hadn't struck him as something humiliating either. After all, Robert did those same things for Daddy and didn't look the littlest bit embarrassed by the fact.

He had known from his first day at the village school he was privileged, and had access to things other boys had not. But he was a kind and good natured child, and he shared his colour pencils and pretty new books with the other boys whose fathers didn't go to London as often as his did.

He read a lot, and there were poor people in the stories, of course, but they were always nice, honest, hard working and good, and things always came to a good end. Dickens' young heroes had made him cry bitter tears, but Daddy had assured him things were no longer like that, and neither David Copperfield nor Oliver Twist had been unhappy because they were poor, but because there were evil people after them.

The first bee in his bonnet had been the conversation with Daddy right before the general strike. The idea that a working man could work such long hours he felt the need to protest about it, and still not earn enough to feed his children was very uncomfortable to his mind. And since Daddy had been forced to recognize that it was actually that bad, it had to be true. That notion had laid sleeping deep inside the child's mind, and as he grew older it became a nagging thought.

At twelve, he had revisited his favourite books and found them lacking explanations for his troubled young mind. Why did Misseltwaite Manor have over one hundred closed rooms while Martha's parents and her eleven brothers had to live in a one room cottage? Why did Mary treat her Ayah so abominably? How come Mary had almost as much weekly pocket money as Martha's father made with his work? What kind of law allowed Miss Minchin to make Sara and Becky work such long hours and not even feed them properly? Were there such laws? And if so, who had made them? And why?

He had gone to his father for some answers. Daddy was in Parliament, where the laws were made, couldn't they make better laws? Wasn't there enough food to go around? Daddy had no satisfying answers to those questions either, the best he had managed to say was that the men in Parliament did their best, and that the world had been a far worse place for the poor when he was young. Thus was the way of the world and changing it was not as easy as Leslie thought, he had added with a smile.

He didn't want to confront his father, but he wanted to know more. Why were some people poor? How could people be poor in spite of working long hours in tiresome and even dangerous workplaces? He had thought of asking his mother, but she might be upset and he didn't want that for he adored her. He asked Mr. Borenius, expecting him to know. The Reverend had said it was all God's will, and that had sent Leslie's mind in a turmoil of doubt. Was God evil then? So he had looked for the answers in books. The Bible had proved a dead end: Christ had said that the poor would always be with us. Why was that necessary? Christ could do miracles, he was God, why hadn't he put an end to poverty? Why had God made some people poor? It wasn't even a matter of the poor being bad and the rich being good: there was a fellow in his class whose father was «filthy rich», as he had heard from other boys, and was also a brute who terrorised his wife and sons, as he had heard from the son himself.

All the way through lower school the subject had been on his mind. Studying his lessons, writing his essays, he never stopped thinking about it. Was it really a necessity that some people went hungry and cold, while others had more than they could eat or wear? It seemed to be according to the law, but was it fair? And if the law wasn't fair, what was its use? During the holidays, at home, he sometimes discussed these things with his sister, and none of them could find a real answer. If their beloved Daddy had said it was the way of the world, maybe they ought to take his word for it. Still, it did not seem right...

He had looked for other books and he had found nothing. It seemed that nobody took time to write about the poor, except in novels. So when he had spotted Engels' book at the Mechanic's Institute Library, it had been like the answer to a long forgotten prayer. The book was old and not at all a light reading. He hadn't fully understood everything in it, but the vivid descriptions of extreme poverty had made a deep impression. He was a generous and caring person. Attentive listener, he had heard words like revolution, communism and socialism, and investigated until he felt he could form an opinion. At fifteen, he was ripe for conversion.

 


	2. Summer cleanings and soap flakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First they sat on the grass and munched the apples, debating the best manner to avoid being in each other's way. When they finished, Irene chose a place right behind the boathouse and buried both apple cores.
> 
> \- With a bit of luck, an apple tree may grow here...

Clive was sitting at his desk, his journal open on a blank page. Through the wide open french doors came the fragrance of the warm grass and Anne's roses, the chirping of the birds, and the voices of his children. From the inside of the house he could hear the indefinite buzzing of everyday life going on, voices, Robert's melodious whistle, faint clicking of china from the tea tray Clarkson was bringing him, footsteps from the upper floor... He had missed his daily writing, but since he had been on the Parliamentary Committee he'd had next to no time to write outside the demands of work, and for the last couple of years had mostly kept a summer journal. He checked his last entry: Christmas, 1932. Following his old ritual, he tried the pen on a piece of blotting paper and started to write.

_Maurice_

_Summer at last! Home at last! And still I miss London and my city life, and revel in the though that it'll all be back in October._

Now he he had some minor responsibilities in a Parliamentary Committee or, in his son's mocking words, was junior under-under secretary of something, his days in London were much more occupied and his work much more interesting, a far cry from that first session he had described as «the first day of school without the good parts». Certainly interesting enough to be missed after some weeks resting. And Robert was still there, still the very soul of efficiency and discretion, still loving and giving.

Some of his friends had tried more than once to persuade him to move out of his little flat and into some more becoming accommodations, but every time he had adamantly refused. He liked his flat, the calm neighbourhood, the excuse it gave him to refuse invitations because he really couldn't repay the hospitality. He liked the fond memories and the intimacy he and Robert enjoyed there, and would certainly be lost in another place.

\- I've had this flat for years now! I'm alone in town, there's only my valet, he already knows his way around the neighbourhood, there's a good restaurant nearby... I like it here!

But sooner or later he'd have to have all that talk over again with some new chap. Tiresome, really.

\- You should get a bigger place, Durham, where you could entertain a little, maybe have your wife with you...

\- That would never do! Anne dislikes London, the noise, the crowds,the fog, the climate...! And she has so much to do at the house and at the village... The Montessori kindergarten class is still working, new group of children every year, you know, a complete triumph! There's an assistant teacher now, of course, but she is still involved. She never stops, my Anne!

The other fellow would let his arms down in the end, defeated.

\- Oh, you are impossible! The last of the serious old men, a living, breathing Jane Austen character...!

_Our week at Juan-Les-Pins is already booked. The children are old enough to be left here with no chaperon; Robert and Martha are more than capable of handling anything that arises. I am a lucky man! I sometimes think I have done nothing to deserve this: Anne, Robert, my children..._

He looked around. As usual, his study was spotless, his books dusted, fresh flowers in a crystal vase on the mantelpiece, Irene's ginger cat, now a mature and rather fat fur ball, sleeping on the hearthrug, his leather armchair in front of the fireplace – now half hidden by a luxuriant fern in a glazed pot – with his embroidered cushion (he remembered Anne embroidering those pink and yellow roses on dark blue velvet during his convalescent days back in '19 and '20), the little folding table where he sometimes had his tea when he had work to do and could not be disturbed... 

_I am surrounded by comfort, a comfort I was born into and never had to fight for. I even escaped the worst of this present crisis, thanks to not being given to speculative investments and having had the incredible luck to marry a prodigious woman who seems to do magic with our yearly income. She's remarkable!_

\- Why can't you simply enjoy all the good you have, sir? - asked Robert sometimes, when he noticed Clive brooding in front of the fire, his eyes so full of doubts and worries about things he did not command.

Robert's sensible words brought him back for some time, but he always ended up depressing over something he ought to have done differently, or not to have done at all.

\- You are in a place where you can try and make a difference, sir. Do your best and no one can ask more than that, right?

_I am a frightful theorist, I know, I remember confessing to it before. Well, old friend, I haven't changed a bit! I still wrap myself up in words and ideas, and seldom get to the acting stage._

He heard youthful voices in the hall and saw Irene ran past his door like a lightning and shoot up the stairs, almost bumping into her mother. Leslie followed her in his much calmer manner.

\- Mummy, can we use the boathouse this summer?

Anne had her arms full. She was carrying a pile of clean vests, shirts, light jumpers and shorts that no longer fitted Leslie, who had grown quite bit in the last year, but would still be good for Irene to use. She had always kept some of Leslie's outgrown things for Irene, who preferred to wear boy's clothes to play and run about during the summer. It was an economy issue, yes, they had other uses for money and they weren't all that rich; but it was an attempt to have her girl grow up far from the trap of vanity and futility. Let her be carefree and wild for as long as she could. She'd have enough time to worry about cocktail dresses and ballgowns when the time came.

\- The boathouse? It has been closed for so long... I don't know if it is still safe to go in there...

\- Clarkson says it's only a bit dirty and has a broken window pane... and we don't want to use the boats, just the house. - Leslie put in a wise word. He had been careful enough to ask Clarkson first. - It's nice and quiet, and cool, and we could take our books and read in the afternoons.

Anne was busy. The summer cleaning was almost done. Robert was hanging up the curtains in the dinning-room, Millie and Lilly were going through the house linen to see what mending was needed, and she was going through Leslie's and Irene's drawers with Martha's help – Martha who had been hired to help after Leslie's birth and had stayed on, and was now Anne's right hand woman around the house – to sort their clothes.

\- Well, my dears, if you want to use it, you'll have to do the cleaning yourselves. Everybody else has work to do. And you really should ask Daddy as well...

Irene jumped at her neck and almost made her lose balance.

\- You are a brick, Mummy! Thank you so much! Daddy is bound to say yes too...

Leslie smiled and kissed his mother's cheek.

\- Thank you so much, Mummy. I'll organize the things so we can begin cleaning tomorrow.

\- And I can fix the window. We learned to set glass panes at school, it's really easy. I'll ask Robert for the hammer, a few nails, sandpaper and window putty.

And she took the pile of clothes from her mother's arms.

\- These are for me, aren't they? I'll take them to my room... Shall I go through my clothes? After all, I'll have to make some room in there, so I may as well do both things. I expect you have a lot to do besides...

Anne smiled. Irene had grown so much during the last year! She had turned out to be such a sensible girl, even though she had kept some of her clumsiness... Anne's mother heart missed the tomboyish little girl who climbed trees and collected crickets and set them lose in the back garden in the summer evenings, to hear them chirping during the night, but thirteen year-old Irene, with her short bobbed hair and Clive's blue eyes, rather graceful in spite of her long legs and arms, in Leslie's outgrown clothes was a completely new source of joy.

\- Yes, please, my dear. Just sort out the things you no longer wear, and make the usual piles on your bed. You know... undergarments, street clothes and pyjamas. I'll see to them later. Thank you so much, it'll be a great help.

Anne returned to Leslie's room. Funny how things turned out to be. She had always known Leslie would have to have a more traditional schooling. He was the eldest, he was a boy, Pendersleigh would be his someday. Still, she had insisted on the village school first. _«He needs to be in contact with the real world, Clive. You never were much, neither was I, and we had to work it all out on our own. We can spare him that. The world is changing so fast!»_ Clive had agreed in the end, he always agreed with her in these matters. It had proven to be the right choice.

For Irene, on the other hand, she had found a very progressive boarding school that had adopted the Montessori system and was now slowly introducing some of Rudolph Steiner's ideas. Again, it had been the right choice, and the girl was very happy at school, and learning such a lot! Her letters home were full of funny details of a school life Anne almost envied. Irene would leave school better prepared for life than Anne had ever dreamed of.

*******

As Leslie approached the boathouse, followed by Irene and Jerry, the old place seemed much older and out of repair than he remembered. The trees on the sides had grown quite a lot, and hadn't been trimmed for a number of years. The ubiquitous blackberry brambles were growing wild, and nearly impenetrable, but already sporting minuscule green berries. Ivy was creeping over the somewhat cracked outside walls and almost hid one of the windows, another window had two broken panes, and the door was stuck and took some strength to turn the key and to open. The boathouse had been almost abandoned for the last few years. Daddy couldn’t row much because of his bad shoulder. Robert used to take the children for boat outings, but for some reason or other they hadn’t done it for some time.

The little room inside, on the left wing, was dusty, there were dry leaves on the floor, blown in thought the broken glass, but the roof hadn’t leaked and the old cushions were still piled on a corner covered with an old tarpaulin as they had left them some summers ago. There was a broom, a mop and an old tin pail inside a corner cupboard, Leslie seemed to remember. There was a similar room on the right wing, but it had always been locked, and Daddy had told them once the key had been lost. He hung up his bag with the tools on a hook on the outside wall and gave Irene one the apples he’d brought. She kept it in her pocket and carefully placed the basket Cook had arranged for their lunch in a safe and high place, for Jerry was not trustworthy when it came to bacon sandwiches and sausage rolls.

First they sat on the grass and munched the apples, debating the best manner to avoid being in each other's way. When they finished, Irene chose a place right behind the boathouse and buried both apple cores.

\- With a bit of luck, an apple tree may grow here...

Then they both rolled up their sleeves, and started working. For the next couple of hours they worked to make the small room clean and pleasant again. While Irene attended to the broken glass pane, Leslie carried the cushions and the old rugs outside, gave them a good beating and left them out in the sun to air. After that, Irene swept the floor twice, to get rid of the dry leaves, sticks and dust the wind had managed to blow in during the winter storms, and Leslie filled the pail with lake water and put in the soap flakes. He had brought soap flakes in a tin, a few handfuls borrowed from the kitchen supplies, to ward away the musty smell of dampness and dust. They threw all the rubbish on the fireplace and lit a fire with some firewood they found neatly piled on the outside, to help dry the floor. Leslie mopped the whole floor, delighting in the clean smell of soap. When he put down the bucket, at the door, he looked back to the now extremely clean little room with pride. Standing on tiptoe, Irene looked over his shoulder, appreciative:

\- That looks lovely! Hmmm, I like the smell! Come, let's sit in the sun and eat! I'm famished...

Irene emptied the bucket and pulled some clean water from the lake so they could wash. It was very cold, but it felt good after all the work that had left them hot and sweaty. They sat in the sun, eating and drinking, and making plans. Jerry was sitting next to Leslie, patiently waiting for the bits of bacon and sausage he gave him. Cook, bless her, had packed them a big lunch and hadn't forgotten some dog biscuits for Jerry. _«I know your appetites! See that the dog doesn't gobble up all the bacon! Your poor brother deserves a treat after that awful school food! He doesn't complain, of course, he's a good boy, but it must be awful...! I still remember how thin and pale poor master Clive used to get during the school term!»_ They stretched on the warm grass for a few minutes, dozing off and feeling very full, but then Irene stood up, brushed her overalls with her hands and called her brother:

\- Come on, Les! You'll get sunburned if you fall asleep! And there is still a lot of work to do!

 


	3. Swimming, sunbathing, and theoretic socialism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clive and Anne pack and leave for Juan-Les-Pins. Swimming and sunbathing follows, with some new acquaintances and good honest lust making its way into Clive's mind. At the boathouse, Leslie and Irene try to make sense of theoretic socialism as it was understood by the naive 1930s idealists.

Clive and Anne would be leaving in the morning to their holidays in the south of France. It had started as a rest from the parliamentary year, and therapy for Clive's wounded shoulder when the children were very small. He needed swimming, sea air and a warm climate, his doctor had told him. It had done so much good to both, it had turned into an annual habit. During the first years, Grandmother Durham would stay with the kids; in the last three years, Aunt Pippa had spent some days at Pendersleigh with her own children. For the first time, they were staying on their own, although Martha and Robert would be there to keep an eye on things.

Robert had finished packing the big trunk, and had checked twice the list he'd made with Clive, to ensure nothing was left behind. He was reading the second and shorter list, for the small handbag: two shirts, two fresh collars, one necktie, a change of underwear, handkerchiefs, socks, personal care items in the fine leather grooming case, the one Anne had had custom made for his fortieth birthday, complete with the extra feature of three small crystal pill bottles, pyjamas, two brand new books for some light reading, and the old writing case that had been his father's and where he carried his journal and writing things. Then his white panama hat went into the hatbox, and his packing was done. He'd wear the black straw Fedora on the voyage.

Irene and Martha were helping Anne with her packing. The girl loved helping her mother and looking at her clothes. Although she was rather tomboyish and cared little for what she wore on a daily basis, she secretly admired those lovely silky and lacy undergarments, the silk stockings, so light they might be spun out of air, and the pretty dresses, even if she had promissed herself never to wear uncomfortable things...

\- Mummy, you are going to look stunning in these! - she was ecstatic about her mother's new beach pyjamas.

They had just been brought in from the dressmaker's and were the most modern outfit. They had been cleverly modelled on the french  _matelot_ attire, dark blue trousers, with small shining brass buttons, and a striped white and blue short jumper. It went beautifully with her new swimsuit, and complemented her slim figure. 

\- Daddy will have to hold on tight to you, for fear of all those tremendously  _charmant_ french gentlemen, or one of them may feel tempted to carry you away! But then again, I bet Daddy looks stunning in his swimsuit...

Anne laughed. She was beginning to understand the truth in the idea that you are only as old as you feel. She had just turned thirty nine and felt younger than she had felt in those terrible days after the War. She led an active and fulfilling life. Living mainly in the country, and preferring to walk to the village rather than call Baynes to drive her every time, kept her fit. The fresh air and water were probably the secret to her smooth complexion that Pippa envied and made Clive's friends in town give her appreciative looks whenever she accompanied him to diner parties and concerts.

Anne liked nice clothes but wouldn't dream of burdening the family income with heavy dressmaker's bills. Even a London dressmaker would be far too expensive. After all she spent most of her year in the country, and needed sensible, comfortable clothes. She had discovered a clever young dressmaker in the nearest town who could make almost everything after having seen it in a fashion magazine, and worked beautifully. The arrangement had proven advantageous to both sides: Anne could afford to have everyday clothes that were dashing and sensible at the same time, and Mrs Hillman had established a reputation as the dressmaker who worked for the wife of the local MP. On the way to Juan-Les-Pins, they always spent a couple of days in Paris, and there she could indulge a little more. Buying one or two designer dresses – and she was careful to elect discreet models, the kind that she could wear a good number of times with the help of some well chosen accessories – and maybe a good pair of high heel shoes or a hat, was really an investment.

As Irene marveled at the clever hatbox that fitted perfectly inside the trunk, carrying Anne's beach hat, a broad brimmed «pancake» straw with a navy blue ribbon, Anne packed her small vanity case. She didn't really wear make-up during the day, and wouldn't dream of plucking her perfectly arched eyebrows, but she followed a strict skin care routine every morning and night, and did wear a little make-up for diner and when she went for an after-diner walk with Clive, so she packed the cold cream, the rose water tonic, and her faithful Pears soap. Powder, eye pencil and lipstick followed and it was done.

\- Don't forget your perfume, Mummy!

Irene fetched the jade-green glass bottle from her mother's dressing table. It had such a mysterious, exotic look!

\- Thank you, dear. I'll have to buy a new one in Paris, it's almost at the end...

The girl unstoppered the small bottle and inhaled, in delight.

\- Hmmm, it smels like you...

As far as she remembered, that fragrance brought to her mind her mother's presence, linked with special nights with guests, when Anne went to the children's room, in one of her prettiest diner dresses, to kiss them good night before going down.

-Where is your brother? I haven't seen him since lunch...

\- Oh, he'll be at the boathouse, I expect. I saw him go out with Jerry, with a book in each pocket and a basket... Shall I go and call him?

\- Yes, please, my dear. I'd like us to be together for tea, as we will be leaving very early tomorrow, so probably won't have a proper diner.

*******

Anne was still fiddling with her beach bag as Clive sat on his comfortable long chair under the striped red and white parasol, and prepared to get absorbed in the first of the two new books he'd brought for some light reading. He'd had his invigorating early morning swim before breakfast, as usual, but for the last three years Anne had discovered the delights of swimming in the warm Mediterranean waters and of sunbathing. And as he enjoyed the sea air and it gave her so much pleasure, he had developed the habit of having breakfast on the terrace with Anne and returning to the beach after, sitting in the shade, in his swimsuit and bathrobe, with a book. Unlike Anne, who tanned rather easily to a lovely golden tone, Clive's skin burned painfully if he wasn't careful enough.

He had just read a few paragraphs when a fresh voice sounded, with an unmistakeable american accent:

\- Hi guys! I told Mabel we'd find you here! A little bird told me you'd arrived yesterday... Anne, let me look at you, girl! Why, you look like a million dollars!

\- Those beach peejays are out of this world! You look positively scrumptious! And Clive, you haven't lost an ounce of that gentlemanly poise I adore! And how elegant you look in that robe!

The year before, Anne had made acquaintance with two very nice and amusing american young women who were staying in a nearby hotel. They had exchanged Christmas and birthday cards, and now they had met again.

Clive might find Mabel and Ellie a bit too boisterous but Anne thought them quite refreshing and it was a good thing she had met them again. Both women were single and shared a little flat in Paris, where Mabel taught English in a girl's school and Ellie translated novels and wrote about fashion for a small independent magazine back in the States. Clive had always felt that Anne needed a bit of fun and a change from the sleepy village and its parochial little gossips, other than the occasions when she stayed for a week-end in London with him, so these two were the perfect opposite of that: Ellie came from a rich family, and had lost her father in the War. She had studied French and English Literature at Vassar, where she and Mabel had met and become friends. After University, they had travelled around Europe a good deal and had settled in Paris in '25. They had confessed to Anne that they were not «on the marriage market» as they put it, signifying they were not looking for a man.

Ellie had a handsome income from a trust fund that even after the '29 crash still provided her with more than enough to live on, but she preferred to lead a rather modest life with her earnings, and only ever used her trust fund money for some occasional small luxuries, like summer holidays in Juan-Les-Pins. Mabel's family wasn't nearly as well off as Ellie's. They had that nice, uncomplicated american sympathy Clive would have found appaling a few years ealier, but Anne seemed to be at ease with them. The three women took long afternoon walks around the town, and Anne no longer spent her free time sitting on the balconny with her embroidery work forgotten on her lap.

\- Clive, dear! I'm going for a swim with the girls. Care to join us?

Anne had steped out of her beach pyjamas and stood in her swimsuit, her slight figure modeled in the blue elastic fabric, tucking a few stubborn curls under her bath cap as he looked up from the open book. Her shoulder straps and belt were red-and-white and the effect was quite pleasant.

\- Thank you, but I'm afraid it's too crowded for me...

A clear, crystalline laugh answered him back. Mabel was dangling her pink bath cap in her hand. Her shoulder length wavy light brown hair was rather stubborn and she needed help to roll it up and put the cap on. Anne helped her. Ellie took out her dark glasses and winked at him. She wore a modern and outrageously daring two piece turquoise blue and white swimsuit, and didn't worry about bath caps: her ginger hair was as short as a man's.

\- Oh Clive, you're some odd ball! Go figure it out! You swim in the morning when the water's cold and you hide from the sun. Britt all over!

He laughed too and watched as they walked to the water. Looking at the three women, graceful and slender in their spandex bathing suits, one would be sorely pressed to admit Anne was almost forty, some ten years older than her friends. She looked so young! He glanced down at his own figure to ascertain he wasn't turning into a fat old chap, before returning to his book.

    

> _"Consider the horse."_

    

> _They considered it._

    

> _Mature at six; the elephant at ten. While at thirteen a man is not yet sexually mature; and is only full-grown at twenty. Hence, of course, that fruit of delayed development, the human intelligence._

    

> _"But in Epsilons," said Mr. Foster very justly, "we don't need human intelligence."_

    

> _Didn't need and didn't get it. But though the Epsilon mind was mature at ten, the Epsilon body was not fit to work till eighteen. Long years of superfluous and wasted immaturity. If the physical development could be speeded up till it was as quick, say, as a cow's, what an enormous saving to the Community!_

    

> _"Enormous!" murmured the students. Mr. Foster's enthusiasm was infectious._

Clive closed the book using the dust-cover flap as a bookmark. What a disquieting book! And to think he'd brought it on as light reading! Brave New World indeed... With the disturbing news one got from Germany, it didn't look like it was going to be all that brave. He closed his eyes against the blazing sun reflecting on the white sand, and leaned back on the striped pillows matching the parasol. He'd had a good swim, a good breakfast, and the warm shade made him sleepy. His breathing became steadily slower and deeper, and he fell asleep.

He woke up with the women's laughter. How splendidly alive and active they looked, water dripping from their wet swimsuits, sparkling in the sunlight like liquid glass, and shining droplets pearling their smooth wet skin. A faint glow of energy seemed to surround them as they laughed and shook their heads.

\- My, my, Clive, you don't know what you missed! We had a glorious swim! - Mabel's american accent made her L sound full and strong, and Clive smiled at how the word «glorious» sounded so much more glorious when pronounced like that.

They stretched on their long chairs to dry in the sun, before it became too hot. The tips of Anne's hair were wet and it made her curls tighter and thus shorter. Clive thought she looked thoroughly delicious! Closing his eyes again he pictured himself helping her out of her beach pyjamas and swimsuit behind the closed door of their hotel suite, and having warm and lazy sex in the broad day light, tasting the salt on her not yet golden skin and caressing the smooth roundness of her hips. There must be something in the air of that place that brought these incovenient images to his mind, he thought, feeling quite mortified. As the girls talked away about silly things, straw hats and silk stockings, he rearranged his bathrobe to conceal the uncomfortable enthusiasm his thoughts had aroused, and opened his book once again, as it was bound to end said arousal quite fast.

    

> _Primroses and landscapes, he pointed out, have one grave defect: they are gratuitous. A love of nature keeps no factories busy. It was decided to abolish the love of nature, at any rate among the lower classes; to abolish the love of nature, but not the tendency to consume transport. For of course it was essential that they should keep on going to the country, even though they hated it. The problem was to find an economically sounder reason for consuming transport than a mere affection for primroses and landscapes. It was duly found._

    

> _"We condition the masses to hate the country," concluded the Director. "But simultaneously we condition them to love all country sports. At the same time, we see to it that all country sports shall entail the use of elaborate apparatus. So that they consume manufactured articles as well as transport. Hence those electric shocks."_

    

> _"I see," said the student, and was silent, lost in admiration._

     Clive stopped reading. What a beastly book! He could see the point, he could see what was unfolding there, and the reading was fascinating in its horror, the closeness to the truth almost uncanny. All that unabashed talk of the lower classes as animals to be trained or «conditioned»... Robert would say it wasn't an imaginary distant future but the real thing, only it was never so candidly spoken of, and he would be obliged to agree. Still it was gripping his imagination in spite of the fact that it was also repulsive to his mind. He'd have to read it till the end, as he was now completely fascinated with the narrative, but it was by no means light reading, damn the appealing title. At least, it had worked in taking care of the other thing.
    *******
     Leslie had fallen asleep with the Communist Manifesto open on his chest. He had improvised a sort of divan with the cushions and a rug, and it was so comfortable he always ended up by sleeping after ploughing through a few dense pages of the book. Jerry slept on the floor beside him.
    Irene, who couldn't be still for too long, had brought her drawing pad, the pencils and her watercolour box, picked a big bunch of larkspur flowers and put them in a glass vase on the makeshift table. The, she had tried to paint them, but had ended by making a clever drawing of her brother, asleep on the cushions with the book.
    \- Wake up, Les, and see how funny you look when you fall asleep with your mouth open! - she called, unnable to wait any longer.
    He woke up, Jerry produced a loud «woof» and she laughed heartily.
    \- Come on, lazy! How am I expected to help with your reading if you doze off at the end of the first page?
    Leslie stretched with a groan and wiggled his toes.
    \- This is heavy stuff, Irene. And with the heat and the swim we had, and the chicken salad... Listen to this, see if you can follow.
    And he began reading aloud:
    

> _«Modern Industry has converted the little workshop of the patriarchal master into the great factory of the industrial capitalist. Masses of labourers, crowded into the factory, are organised like soldiers. As privates of the industrial army they are placed under the command of a perfect hierarchy of officers and sergeants. Not only are they slaves of the bourgeois class, and of the bourgeois State; they are daily and hourly enslaved by the machine, by the overlooker, and, above all, by the individual bourgeois manufacturer himself. The more openly this despotism proclaims gain to be its end and aim, the more petty, the more hateful and the more embittering it is.»_

     \- Wait! Slow down... - she frowned in her effort to take in all the words and make sense of the whole paragraph – So little workshop into factory, labourers like soldiers, enslaved to the bourgeois class and to the bourgeois state, and to the machines... Yes, it does make sense, go on.
    Leslie read on:
    

> _«The less the skill and exertion of strength implied in manual labour, in other words, the more modern industry becomes developed, the more is the labour of men superseded by that of women. Differences of age and sex have no longer any distinctive social validity for the working class. All are instruments of labour, more or less expensive to use, according to their age and sex.»_

     \- Wait a minute! So the machines are bad because with them women can work as good as men? Who is this Marx fellow, Les?
    He smiled. Oh, she was clever! Even Jerry produced a muffled «woof», probably in appreciation of Irene's inteligence too.
    \- I knew you'd notice this! But he means it in the good sense.
    \- How is there even a good sense in believing women are somehow worse than men when it comes to work? “The bourgeoisie” means us, that much I followed and it is beastly to feel one was born on the bad side, but look at Mummy and how hard she works! And what does Daddy do? He sits in Parliament all day scribbling papers, and he still needs Robert to look after him... I love Daddy, but let's be honest!
    Leslie smiled yet again. He only wished his fellow students were as attentive and articulate as his thirteen year old little sister!
    \- No, no, wait and listen. You know how women are usually shorter and less muscular than men. Employers know that, it's common knowledge, and they use that knowledge to pay women's work cheaper even if they work as hard and as long as men.
    \- And that's exploitation, isn't it?
    \- Yes, it is, we've been through that. Now with the modern machines, physical strength isn't as important anymore, but employers prefer to employ women and pay them cheaper for the same work a man would do. That lowers pay levels everywhere, and that's what Marx is saying.

Irene's eyes alighted with understanding.

\- Oh... I see...

\- And then there's something else. Upper and middle class women don't usually work. I know what you're going to say, and you are right, but I meant they don't usually have a career and a salary. So marxists believe all women ougth to be given that same opportunity, by paying men decent living wages. So, if a woman wanted to pursue a career, it would be because she actually wanted it and not because she had no option. What capitalism is doing is to turn all working people into numbers, like pieces of machinery...

She was quiet for a while. She couldn't really make her mind whether she agreed with it or not.

\- It's difficult, this stuff – she admited, more to herself than to her brother – On one hand, every person should have the same rights and opportunities, no matter if they are rich or poor. In a right world, there would be no poor people. On the other hand, I intend to work when I grow up, and do things, and earn my own money. I'd hate to have to beg for a book or a pair of shoes from anyone, and I certainly never will depend on a man...! But I wouldn't want to be made feel like a piece of equipment...

She jumped and went to the mantelpiece to fetch the biscuit tin.

\- All this talking made me hungry. Want a biscuit? I helped Cook with the baking yesterday afternoon, while you were in here reading. She is teaching me to bake sugar biscuits, and maybe apple crumble too. It's our homework for the summer...learning to cook simple things.

Leslie put his pencil between the pages to mark the last page read, and helped himself to a biscuit.

\- Les, how do people in Russia live? There was a real revolution there, right? Is it very different from how we live?

\- I don't know, Irene. I only know it's no longer called Russia, it's the Soviet Union now. Soviet is a russian word for committee. I've been told that everything is debated and decided in these small committees made of ordinary people, and then the results are brought up to the higher levels of political hierarchy, and that's how they decide things... but I don't actually know anyone who's been there to see, so I don't know. It's bound to be different though, right?

Irene put the lid back on the tin.

\- Say, my head is about to burst with information. I need to digest this. Let's see if there's plums good enough to eat? Race you to the wood...!

 

\--------------------------------------------------------

Notes and links:

Excerpts of Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley from <http://www.idph.com.br/conteudos/ebooks/BraveNewWorld.pdf>

Excerpts of The Communist Manifesto, by Karl Marx and Friederich Engels from <https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1848/communist-manifesto/index.htm>

Le Jade was a perfume by Roger & Gallet, launched in 1923. Productin stopped during the 1960s. It was sold in three different bottles. Two were made of clear glass, designed by Lalique, and the other was made of jade-green glass, also with Lalique's design. I believe Clive would prefer this one.

See the green bottle here <https://www.christies.com/lotfinder/Lot/a-roger-gallet-15-le-6078243-details.aspx>

See the prettiest of the two clear glass bottles here <https://www.secretcabinet.fr/roger-gallet-le-jade.html>

 


	4. The end of bourgeois family and glamourous Americans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the boathouse, Leslie and Irene discuss the revolution, in a dreamlike and fairy tale fantasy. At Juan-Les-Pins, Clive revisits the past and fears the gloomy future. There's a french hotel manager, a Davenport desk and a glimpse of the Fitzgerald couple.

They had had a good lunch. It was very hot outside but thanks to the ivy covering part of the windows and the overgrown trees shadowing it, the boathouse was cool. Leslie was ploughing through the middle pages of The Communist Manifesto, underlining some passages with his pencil, all his atention focused on the words of the book.

 

 

 

>   _ **O** **n what foundation is the present family, the bourgeois family, based? On capital, on private gain. In its completely developed form, this family exists only among the bourgeoisie . But this state of things finds its complement in the practical absence of the family among the proletarians, and in public prostitution. ** _
> 
> _**T** **he bourgeois family will vanish as a matter of course when its complement vanishes , and both will vanish with the vanishing of capital. ** _
> 
> _**D** **o you charge us with wanting to stop the exploitation of children by their parents? To this crime we plead guilty.** _
> 
> _**But, you say, we destroy the most hallowed of relations, when we replace home education by social.** _

Irene had been drawing something on her sketchbook. After a few more pencil strokes she looked at the final result and seemed quite satisfied with it. She got up quietly and took a biscuit from the tin on the mantelpice. Jerry, who had been playing around the whole morning, and was sleeping on a patch of warm shade by the door, opened one lazy eye but seeing everything was normal returned to his nap.

\- Les?

Leslie put the book down to answer, thankful for the interruption. The reading was troubling him. Jerry put up one ear but didn’t move otherwise.

\- Yes…? - he looked up at his sister.

Irene stood by the fireplace munching on a biscuit, had secured her drawing pencil behind her ear, and was looking genuinely puzzled. Leslie wished he could have followed the trail of thoughts that had led her to call him.

\- Imagine for a moment there was a revolution here…

Leslie smiled. Count on Irene to think things like that out of the blue.

\- Don’t smile, I’m serious…! Just imagine. What might happen to us? Would we have to live differently?

Leslie sat up. His first impulse was to dismiss the whole thing with an earnest «I don’t know!». In a second thought, he decided to give it a try. He had read brochures about the Russian Revolution from a young printer at the Mechanic’s Institute, who had seen the kind of books Leslie was reading and had taken to heart the political education of that young son of the bourgeoisie. He had kept an attentive ear at school and had discovered that there were two sixth formers who talked a lot about those issues. He had amassed only the faintest idea of what a revolution was like.

\- Well, let me think… In Russia they had a serious housing problem, so big houses like ours were divided among as many families as they could fit in… But I don’t believe we would need that here, so…

\- We’d have to leave Pendersleigh then? – there was some alarm in her voice.

\- Well, let’s face it, I love the place, of course, but we don’t need so many rooms. Most of them are closed anyway… We’d probably move to the village, to a smaller place, maybe to the Dower House, since Gran doesn’t live there anymore… The land would be distributed among the tenants who actually work on it; it’s really theirs if you think about it straight. Maybe the house could be used for some community service, like a school, or a hospital, or a resting place for the old and the sick…

\- But what about Cook? And Clarkson? And Robert? Would they all be out of work?

Leslie stood silent for a couple of seemingly long minutes. She had touched a delicate spot. His readings had given him, for the first time in his short life, a sense of class, and it was very uncomfortable. He had begun to think about the servants’ work, their absurdly long working hours, and their few days off. Did Robert actually have days off? As far as Leslie could remember, he sometimes spent an afternoon at the village with his parents, and that was it. Was it right to have servants? If it wasn’t, and he was becoming increasingly certain that it wasn’t, could it become right if one paid them a fair wage and gave them the weekends off and holidays?

Irene was hanging on his answer. She hadn’t acquired a keen sense of class yet, and was worrying about the fate of the people she cared about in case there was to be a revolution. He’d have to say something. Leslie gave a deep sigh and let his imagination work, thinking the things up as he spoke.

\- Millie and Lilly would love to have a little cottage of their own and a little business doing ironing and mending. I heard Mille talk about it once with Cook. Baynes… well, Mummy wouldn’t need the car if we lived at the Dower House, so Baynes could become a cab driver, right? I suppose he’d go back to living with his parents, since he’s not married.

\- Oh, that would be lovely! We would still meet them every day, then. I like that…

She sounded so happy, and his words had impressed him as so dreamlike and impossible, that for a split second Leslie felt a despicable traitor. He very much doubted that revolutions could lead to quiet and nice changes in people’s lives. But then again, he doubted very much there would ever be a revolution in England. Even his communist friend, the young printer, doubted that, he’d said as much. So there was no real treason in indulging in a little shared dream with his little sister, imagining how they could lead a simpler life. It was a harmless fantasy, wasn’t it?

\- Les, would Daddy stay in Parliament? He’s a Conservative MP, right?

\- Maybe there would be a Conservative minority? Though I’d rather have Daddy at home more often… - he missed his father. But then he remembered how Daddy became restless after a few weeks at home and added - Or maybe he could just be a lawyer… He’d still have to live in London most of the time then, there’s no work for a lawyer in the village… So, in answer to your question, Robert would go with Daddy, the way he always does. I don’t believe Daddy could do without Robert. Or Mummy without Martha.

Irene’s blue eyes were wide with admiration. How clever Leslie was! She almost wished they could live that other life he was describing. It sounded so good!

\- Do go on, Les, it all sounds so nice…!

Leslie was no longer trying to imagine a revolution, even a mild and nice one; he was making up a fairy tale. All the words of the books he’d recently read vanished from his mind. Working classes, means of production, bourgeoisie were now meaningless words of a foreign language as he made up a whole new life for his family, one he would like to live as much as he liked his actual life.

\- Cook could stay at the Dower House, I guess. I know Mummy can cook a little, but she has so many other things to do… Besides, Cook has been with the family for ages, she remembers when Daddy was a little boy! I think Clarkson would be glad to go; he’s had an eye on Mrs Lowes from the Post Office for quite some time.

Irene wrinkled her nose in utter disbelief.

\- You mean he’s in love? Clarkson? With Mrs Lowes? Yuk! They’re old…! – in her head, love was a matter for Romeo and Juliet, or for Mummy and Daddy, not for a greying butler and a middle aged widow.

Leslie put his book down and got up to take a biscuit from the tin. Then he sat on the floor beside Irene. Being a keen observer, he had spotted Clarkson’s secret as soon as he’d arrived home. He’d seen the butler heading for the village on his Wednesday afternoons off, with small bouquets wrapped in tissue paper, and seen the same bouquets in a glass vase on the Post Office counter.

\- They’re not that old, Irene, just a few years older than Mummy and Daddy. And old people can fall in love as well …

Irene had been sitting for far too long. She jumped up and stretched, and began unbuttoning her shirt, one of Leslie’s old ones. She had her swimsuit under it.

\- Oh, you are clever! I’d never be able to picture things the way you do. You should become a writer someday. And Marie could make the drawings for your stories… I tell you something though, whether there is a revolution or not, I want to be a doctor! Or a mechanic, I haven't decided yet! - she shook her head, making her hair whirl around - It’s so hot! Do you think we could have a swim, Les? It’s almost five, we must have digested every single crumb of lunch by now…

Leslie follwed her outside. The sun was still rather hot and as he sat, slowly pulling of his clothes, he kept thinking about the last lines he'd underlined in The Communist Manifesto. « _The bourgeois family will vanish as a matter of course...»_ He wasn't certain about wanting to live in a world like that. Was it all a big block of ideas one had to embrace as whole? Couldn't there be the slightest change in the master plan for the revolution? His printer friend thought so. He, on the other hand, was less and less sure of it.

Irene jumped into the lake with a huge splash.

\- Come on, Les! It's heavenly cool!

«I'm a sad excuse for a communist. My class origin pulls me down, Christian would say... Maybe he's right, I don't know...» He jumped into the lake to join Irene. The revolution could wait.

***

Clive pulled his writing case out of the drawer, and sat at the Davenport desk in front of the window. It was his favourite place in his hotel suite. There was even a funny story attached to that desk: in ’26, when they’d stayed at the hotel for the first time, there had been no desk. The space under the window was occupied then by a modern marble topped console that fitted the general modern look of the small set of rooms. Clive had tried it, found it was not uncomfortable to use as writing desk, and he had adopted the place at once, for its good light, and the fresh sea breeze when the window was open. And as it opened onto a back street, he only got the faintest hummimg of the crowds talking and lauhging along the Promenade. The year after, as soon as they had arrived, Mme Guichard, the manager, had welcomed them with a radiant smile:

_\- Ah, Monsieur Dur'am, Madame Dur'am, vous voici de retour, quelle joie! Monsieur Dur'am, votre santé? Ah, vous allez mieux, cella ce voit!_

After the warm compliments, she had informed:

_\- J'ai une suprise pour vous. J’ai fait placer une très jolie petite secrétaire dans votre salon. Dorénavant vous pourrez écrire comme il faut!_

And she went on to inform him, her small hands as eloquent as her words, how she had acquired the small desk in an auction, on a whim ( _C’était tellement charmante! Et pas chère, non, pas chère du tout…!_ ), and had remembered how he liked to spend his afternoons writing ( _Une petite secrétaire anglaise, figurez-vous! J’ai pensé à vous tout de suite, naturellement!_ ), so she had at once decided to have the desk brought to the Durhams’ suite for the length of their stay.

Had Clive been a writer, and Mme Guichard could well have inspired a wonderful character for a light novel; an excentric widowed aunt or a somewhat odd neighbour. She was almost too good to be true, from her impecable Marcel waves and her discreet make up down to her small feet, always clad in half heel elegant shoes. Everything about her seemed perfect for a novel character: her slightly chubby siloutte, always wearing the most flatering version of the latest fashion, her agreable voice and her motherly simpathy for her English and American guests, and, above all, her extensive knowledge of everything that happened in Juan-Les-Pins, in spite of the fact that she seemed never to leave the Hotel. Anne loved talking to her, and she addored Anne ( _Madame Dur'am? Une perle, une vraie perle!_ ), but Anne’s capacity to have people love her was one of her great charms, he’d always thought.

And here he was, drifting away from his intention of writing his journal entry. Lately, he caught himself doing that quite often, letting his thoughts run away with him. Anne said he needed a group of friends, but Clive had always been a loner, and he wasn’t going to change. The truth was that the majority of his fellow MP bored him tremendously. There were maybe half a dozen he was quite fond of, younger men with fresh ideas and not yet spoiled by the cynicism and the need to compromise that sooner or later turned all politicians into leathery sceptics.

Smiling at the unflattering portrait he had just sketched in his mind of politicians in general, himself included, Clive opened his journal, tried his fountain pen on the hotel blotting paper sheet that prudently covered the burgundy leather of the desk top and began writing.

_Maurice_

Having kept the habit of addressing his journal entries to his friend’s name for so many years, he rarely took notice of writing it, but that day the name struck him as a long forgotten but dearly loved memory. Would Maurice still live in Malta, just across the Mediterranean Clive saw every morning? Funny, he thought, he couldn’t recall with a good degree of detail the exact last time he’d seen Maurice. He had the faintest memory of sweetly scented flowers, dim light from the hall, and a warm darkness. The strongest memory was of Maurice’s laughter, a soft, pleasant rumble…

 _Soon it will be twenty years, to the day, since we last met. It’s troubling how little I’ve thought about you lately. Reminiscence is a strange friend indeed. I wonder where you are right now, what_ _you ar_ _e doing. Would I recognize you, if we met? Will we ever meet again?_

He very much doubted they would. Maurice had defied the whole social order, so he probably lived on the outside margins of the society. Still, if Scudder was a nurse and actually worked at some clinic in Malta, a place respectable enough for the wife of a Royal Navy Officer, as Clive had heard from Reverend Borenius some years ago, the two men wouldn’t be completely social outcasts…

He forced that whole train of thought away from his mind, and focused on the small events of that day.

 _Anne is out with her friends. They came round at four to invite her for an ice cream and a_ _walk along the Promenade, and Anne wanted to ask Mabel about some books she has wanted to order for teaching French to the kindergarten class back home, so I guess she won’t be here till diner time. I heard Mme Guichard talking about some very glamourous young Americans staying at that new Hotel that opened in Villa Saint Louis, Belles Rives I believe it’s called, and Ellie said she knows one of them from College, so they may have gone that way to take a peak._

Clive had a vague recollection of the Fitzgerald couple from their (his and Anne’s) first summer, but they were way too hedonistic for Clive’s taste, and even more so back then. Anyway, since from his memories, they seemed to get up right before diner and go to bed just after breakfast, he and Anne had barely glimpsed them a few times. And he hadn’t really liked the book all that much. It had a sort of decadent charm, yes, that much he was ready to admit, but had left a bitter aftertaste. Clive had had enough on his plate in those tormented years without the need for depressing novels. He’d sooner go back to Sassoon’s poetry; at least it was straightforward and true.

That, of course, brought to his mind the book he was about to finish and how deeply troubling it was proving to be. That very same morning, Anne had asked him about the book, and he had given her the most bizarre answer, true to the core as it was.

\- I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone, my dear. Mr Huxley succeeded in imagining a future even bleaker and greyer than we can foresee on our own.

The future Clive could anticipate was bleak enough already. Oh, he had all the trust in his country, but the Continent was going in all the wrong directions at the same time, at least it was the way it looked.

_The news from Germany are anything but reassuring. There’s something about that new chancellor I don’t like. Can’t put my finger on it exactly, but I heard a few rumours from men I trust. From Russia, things don’t sound very good either. That fellow Stalin doesn’t strike me as the kind of man one would like to do business with, for fear of being stabbed in the back before reaching the door._

Anne’s voice sounded at the door.

\- Clive? Are you there?

He got up and let her in. She looked extremely happy and carefree, a welcome contrast to the gloomy paragraph he’d just noted down.

\- Had a good time?

\- Oh, very good! We’ve been invited to dine at Belles Rives by Ellie’s friend. I almost refused, for your sake, but Ellie said you must enjoy yourself sometime and she is right!

Clive faked a grimace.

\- Does that mean I have to dress up and behave like the perfect British MP to a host of young and boisterous Americans?

Anne stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

\- That means you are going to dress up and take your wife, in her very newest Parisian dress, to a diner at Belles Rives Hotel, the very toast of the French Riviera, with a few young and highly interesting Americans. I met them and I can assure you’ll probably like them.

He rolled his eyes and let out a deep fake sigh.

\- Well, if I must, I must…

\- Come on, Clive, it will be fun…!

He smiled and proceeded to keep his journal and writing things. It might be fun, he thought. And besides, Anne deserved it. He deserved it. He’d had enough gloom for one summer day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone needs the French translated:  
> \- Ah, Mr Durham, Mrs Durham, how glad I am to have you back! Mr Durham, how's your health? Oh, you are better, I can see.  
> \- I have a surprise for you I had a very nice little desk brought to your salon. From now on you'll be able to write properly!  
> (It was so charming. And not expensive, no, not at all expensive...!)  
> (A small english desk, imagine! I thought about you at once, of course!)  
> (Mrs Durham? A pearl! A true pearl!)


	5. Migraines and mysterious discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clive confirms he is no party man and Leslie fights with his readings and finds something he was not supposed to.

Half reclined on his makeshift divan, Leslie was still breaking his way through The Communist Manifesto. The booklet was by now heavily underlined, and scribbled with his notes in pencil, and still he was always re-reading and pausing to discuss things with Irene or to try and figure out some of the more delicate points on his own. Today he was reading about Petty-Bourgeois Socialism and sadly recognizing himself there.

_**In its positive aims, however, this form of Socialism aspires either to restoring the old means of production and of exchange, and with them the old property relations, and the old society, or to cramping the modern means of production and of exchange within the framework of the old property relations that have been, and were bound to be, exploded by those means. In either case, it is both reactionary and Utopian.** _

_**Its last words are: corporate guilds for manufacture; patriarchal relations in agriculture.** _

_**Ultimately, when stubborn historical facts had dispersed all intoxicating effects of self-deception, this form of Socialism ended in a miserable fit of the blues.** _

Leslie closed the little brochure in despair. So that was where he stood now, petty bourgeois socialism, some silly dreamy sort of sad revolutionary, wasn't it? He opened the booklet again and the words he'd just underlined flashed once again before his eyes: « _ **In either case, it is both reactionary and Utopian**_ **.** »

Reactionary and Utopian, that seemed to be the furthest he could go, and somehow it hurt. Utopian, yes, he could live with that, but Reactionary really hurt. Still he could not abide violence. He'd wait for the « _stubborn historical facts»_ to prove him wrong, he thought. Violence made him sick and he couldn’t see the use of it. If one simply shot one's opponents, could it really be called a true revolution? Wasn't it rather like winning a game because the other team failed to appear? After all, there was a Parliament, the right arena to fight for high ideals. Couldn't there be a Communist Movement convincing through the high example of its members? Wasn't there some standard of decency to maintain? His printer friend always laughed at these objections. « _You're a good fellow, Les, but a regular dreamer! Most posh blokes have no degree of decency, except maybe on a cricket match. There are levels of poverty in this country you cannot even begin to imagine. I was lucky enough to go to school till I turned twelve, but my father started working when he was eight! Do you really believe that the bourgeoisie will calmly step down to let us – poor folks, I mean – have a share of the wealth, even gradually? If we dared to suggest it, we’d be slaughtered, and the few bourgeois, like you, who would be willing to do the right thing, would be disposed of as well, make no mistake!_ »

Maybe Christian was right about it. Even Leslie's father pronounced the word «communism» as if it was a dirty word, and though he seemed to be fair to people who worked for him, he didn't seem likely to share all his wealth with them in equal terms. The tenants lived in two room cottages and the servants slept in the servant's quarters, and ate at odd hours in the servant's hall. Was social inequality a real need? Were there real arguments to prove it? Couldn't it be changed? Oh, it was enough to make one go mad with so much thinking!

\- Jerry...! - he called.

The dog appeared at once, wagging his tail and looking adoringly at him. Leslie stood up, leaving the book open, cover up on the improvised divan.

\- Come on, boy! I'm getting a headache over this book! Let's go get Irene...!

Irene had settled in a strip of shade under the overgrown trees and the blackberry brambles with her easel and her watercolours, and was trying to capture the lake in the summer afternoon light. She had made a couple of sketches the day before and they were rather good, so she had decided to try the watercolours. She now sat looking at the result, not at all pleased if her knitted eyebrows were not because of the sun, so absorbed she never saw Leslie and Jerry approach.

\- So, how's the work going?

The girl looked up, a bit startled, and grimaced with her eyebrows still knitted in discontentment.

\- I can't do it! It looks like the bad end of a disaster! Drawings were all right but I cannot paint...

Leslie looked. It wasn't as bad as she seemed to think, it was rather good for a thirteen year-old with a moderate talent. Anyway, it was a difficult task to pin to a paper sheet the golden light, the droplets on the water lily leaves and flowers, the slight trembling of the water when a fish swam by and the coolness it all transpired in contrast with the scorching heat.

\- It's not all bad. The water lilies look good and the corner of the house is not that bad either...

She looked up, all anger gone from her smile.

\- I'm keeping it, anyway. Maybe I'll do better next time... And your book?

It was Leslie's turn to pull a long face, the last paragraph he'd read still ringing in his ears as if he had read it aloud.

\- Hopeless! It seems to be either all or nothing. I'm an incurable bourgeois every way I look at it. Sooner or later, I'm told, the stubborn historical facts will judge me and prove me wrong with my dreams of peaceful changes, and I dare say it's a good enough guess.

\- What if you are right and that Marx fellow is wrong? After all, when did he write that wretched book?

\- Wasn't it around 1850? Yes, I think it was...

She closed her watercolour box with a click and exclaimed:

\- There! It's as old as the world! That was written back in Charles Dickens' time. Daddy hadn't been born by then. What am I saying, even Grandma hadn't been born yet! Steam trains were the absolute last cry of modernity. There were no motorcars, no cinema, no gramophones, no wireless for Pete's sake! There hadn't been the Great War. What did the man know?

She had a point, Leslie could give her that. But Irene always had a point, she was that smart. And she was still talking.

\- … clever! What if your vision turns out to be the English path to revolution?

\- All this has been thought about and debated by far better men than me, Irene. I still have much to read and to learn. I'm little more than a boy, really...

Jerry, clearly bored with all the talking and so little activity, uttered a loud «woof», meaning «are we going to swim a bit or what?» Both Leslie and Irene laughed at the explosion.

\- You're right, Jerry! Damn the revolution and let's have a good swim.

About an hour later, as they were stretched on the warm grass, Leslie got up propped on his elbow, a sudden idea in his head - not so sudden really, he had been thinking about it ever since they had spent a whole day cleaning.

\- Say, sister, wouldn't you like to see what's in the other side of the boathouse?

She sat up better to pay attention. She loved an adventure and for a split second she was sorry she hadn't been the one to think about it.

\- The other room, you mean? I tried to look through the windows, but they're so grimy it's impossible to see anything. I thought there was no key...

\- There isn't, I asked Daddy before they went away, but we could have a look. There's a lot of old keys in a drawer in the garden shed. We could look for one that might fit, the lock looks simple enough. I'll take the one we have and look for a similar one. And if we don't find it, we may try to dismantle the lock. We can put it together again afterwards...

Irene smiled, making dimples on her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled.

\- How devious! I wasn't expecting it from you, Les... it sounds more like something planed by me... Must be from those readings, and those working class friends you have, as Grandma would undoubtedly say. But let's do it! Oh, and you should put your jumper and your hat on or you'll burn. Your cheeks are already turning pinkish...

*******

Even with his sunglasses, Clive felt the sun like sharp needles in his eyes. He had slept till rather late – a first for his years of staying at Juan-Les-Pins – and woken with a migraine the kind he had almost forgotten. He had already taken his newly prescribed pills, some new wonder drug for migraines, and was no longer in pain but felt completely drugged and saw a kind of sparkling halo around everything. He had insisted in accompanying Anne, anyway.

\- The pain is gone, my dear, these new pills are amazing! If I stay I'll only sleep and you know sleeping is bad for me when I've taken my migraine pills. - and she had agreed in the end.

There was no way he could read, he hadn't even brought the book. So, as Anne and her friends went for a swim, he closed his eyes and began mentally composing his next journal entry to keep his mind occupied and avoid falling asleep.

_Maurice_

_I'm getting old for parties. That's the conclusion I've come to after last night's dinner with Ellie's friends. I’m a complete wreck this morning._

Intimately, he smiled at the recollection of the night before. It had been good fun. Anne had looked absolutely beautiful in her parisian evening dress. It was simplicity itself, tight fitting till the waistline and falling in soft waves to floor length, in dove grey shimmering silk with thin shoulder straps and a rather low back cut, which meant she wasn't wearing a bra – and Clive had found the mere thought of it tremendously erotic - brought out her slim figure and her golden tan. She had a silvery grey lace short coat to wear over it, and a pretty headpiece, a kind of thin tiara with a couple of flowers in the same silk of the dress, secured with a gold and opal pin in the shape of a bee. She wore a single pearl string around her neck, matching earrings and no other jewels, except her engagement and wedding rings, and her usual discreet night make up. Clive had felt the proudest of men when he'd entered the terrace where the diner was going to be served and noticed that although Anne was probably the eldest woman there she was by far the most beautiful. The younger girls, whether they were wearing short cocktail dresses or long evening ones, were all angles and bones, skinny legs and sharp elbows, while she had a softness that made her so much more appealing. Most men couldn't take their eyes off her..

_The diner was very good – after all we are in France – and the wine was superb. The young americans were rather nice and interesting, polite and learned, although I couldn't completely shake off the idea that they were observing me like a curiosity. They are all fascinated with France (above all the modern painters and writers) and think of England as kind of an open air museum full of out-of-date things. They are all rather young and every bit as silly as we were at their age, I suppose._

He had heard a good deal of compliments on his wife's beauty and on how nice she was. _«You are a lucky devil! Anne's a star! And she's so agreeable to talk to! I'd hardly believe she's English if it wasn't for that beautiful accent. I though all english ladies were stuffy and boring...»_ He had heard all about the modern painters. _«That Picasso is really doing some baffling stuff. Pity he's a communist, but artists have the right to be a little eccentric isn't it? I only wish my old man had had the sense to buy something from him when he was in Paris before the War. It would fetch a small fortune now – not that I'd sell it, if I had one...»_ Clive had had to admit he had never seen a Picasso, and painting, above all modern painting, wasn't really his cup of tea. He had heard someone praise the book he was just finishing. _«That's some book! I went completely bananas over it. It's so out of this world...»_ Clive had given an uncompromising half-smile to the young woman who had said it. The book was giving him a hard enough time as it was, he didn't want to discuss it.

_I cannot tell if it was the Champagne, the loud talk and the music, or the simple fact that we got to our Hotel much, much later than our usual bedtime. Whatever it was, and it was probably all the above, I woke up this morning with the worst migraine I've experienced in years._

It had been long past midnight when someone had complained of the heat and proposed they go skinny-dipping. As almost everybody responded enthusiastically, Anne had silently signalled it was time for them to go, so they had said a quick good-bye to Ellie's friend and walked to their Hotel through the deserted streets with the ever present rumble of the sea waves sounding in the distance. The night porter had mumbled a sleepy _«Bonsoir M'ssieur, M'dame...»_ and when Clive had finally changed into his comfortable pyjamas and curled on his cool bed beside Anne, he had instantly fallen asleep and hadn't even woken up at six, as usual, for his early morning swim.

He wished he had remembered to bring his journal and the pen. He could have sat on a terrace overlooking the beach, have a glass of ice coffee with lemon, and write. The coffee would help with his drugged state, and writing was always so therapeutic! He was almost asleep when Mabel's voice sounded close to his ear.

\- Are you feeling better, Clive? - he could feel the coolness from her skin, and a few drops of sea water splashed his hand – Anne said you woke up with a bad migraine, poor thing!

He smiled and sat up.

\- Yes, thank you, it's better now. But I don't believe this sun is helping. Anne?

Anne approached him, her bath cap still on.

\- Yes, dear...?

\- I think I'll sit on the Café, in the shade. I'll have an ice coffee and send the groom to the Hotel for my writing case. This light hurts my eyes...

\- Shall I go with you?

\- No, thank you, there's no need. I feel perfectly fine, it's just the light... I can hardly open my eyes even with the glasses!

Ellie helped Clive to his feet.

\- We'll take good care of Anne for you, dear! Go rest your eyes. - she placed an arm around Anne's waist - You know what? Have some light lunch at the Café, they make an excellent Crème Vichyssoise. In my experience, migraines don't go well with heavy meals. Anne, love, you can have lunch with us... There's this new bakery with the most wonderful baguettes I've been wanting to try.

\- What a good idea! If you agree, Anne...

She felt his forehead and discreetly checked his pulse before agreeing with the whole arrangement.

\- You will be careful, won't you Clive? Ask for a cab if you don't feel well enough to walk. Or would you rather wait for us?

He promised to be extra cautious, but there was no need to wait. He'd write for a bit, have a light meal – the silky cold Crème Vichyssoise was an excellent suggestion – and then walk slowly back to the Hotel and maybe have a short nap, sleep off the last remains of his headache.

***

The study was Daddy's private realm and Leslie had never been in there when his father was away. His earliest memories were all from that particular room, he must have been three by then, sitting on a rug with his building blocks while Mummy knitted in front of the fire, Irene slept in her rocking cradle, and Daddy sat at his desk writing. Slowly, silently, he closed the door behind him. It felt so empty without Daddy...!

He was looking for post stamps. He had written a postcard to his parents and wanted to leave it on the hall table for Robert to post when he went to the village to visit his parents. Clackson had no stamps in his desk.

\- Robert could buy some at the Post Office... - he had suggested.

But Irene had remembered that maybe there would be some in Daddy's desk. He usually kept a roll of post stamps in one of the drawers, didn't he?

It was dark and cool in Daddy's study. Leslie inhaled, and the smell of waxed furniture, Mummy's homemade rose and lemon verbena potpourri, and the faintest ghost of Daddy's lavender water made his heart ache for a second. He missed his parents, though they had only been gone for five days. He sat on his father's chair and opened the top right hand drawer. It contained a cardboard box of Daddy's personal letter paper, an ink bottle, half-full, a box of paper clips, a few half-used pencils, Daddy's ivory paper knife, but no stamps. The drawer immediately below had three blank black leather bound notebooks, the kind Daddy used and a box of envelopes. The third and last drawer on the right hand side was full of what seemed to be old papers of all kinds: old used envelopes, Daddy's War time journals, trash mostly...

It was obvious there were no stamps in there, but Leslie felt curious about the old papers. He sat on the floor and began exploring. Underneath the layer of jumbled up papers, there were two bunches of letters, all neatly tied with red-and-white string. One was of letters his father had written home from school and Leslie smiled at the sight of the childish hand. The other was of letters his mother had written to Daddy during the War, and he felt he shouldn't read them. At the bottom there was an old leather bound book. He picked it up an under the book there was an old rusty key.

Leslie felt in his pocket for the boathouse key and compared the two. Except for the fact that his key had been cleaned and had a piece of brown string attached to an acorn though the ring (Irene's doing), they were perfect twins. Maybe Daddy had kept the key there and forgotten about it, he tought, pocketing both keys. Or maybe Daddy had hidden it for some reason... He promised himself he'd put ir back as soon as possible, just in case. As he put the things back inside the drawer, a small bundle of papers fell from inside the book he was still holding. The boy picked them up, closed the drawer and sat back on his father's chair to examine the book and the papers.

The book was old and had his father's name written on the front page. Clive Durham, 1909. It was a greek book and with some difficulty he read the title. Plato's Symposium. He wasn't able to read it, it was way above his level. It seemed to have been thoroughly read, underlined and studied – the page margins had all kinds of notes in his father's small and neat hand. The small bundle was in fact a couple of letters that must be very old, for the ink was a bit faded and the paper was almost tearing at the folds. One was an actual letter, still kept inside its original envelope. The other was a small note, but they were both in the same hand. Both were signed M and that was all he got to read before he heard Irene calling.

\- Les! Where are you? Did you find the stamps? Robert is leaving...!

Hastily, with the uncomfortable feeling the he was doing something wrong, Leslie put the letters back inside the book and hid the book in the spacious pocket of his overalls, before answering back.

\- I'm here. In Daddy's study, but there are no stamps...

Robert's voice sounded.

\- Oh, that's not a problem, sir. I'll buy some at the Post Office.

As soon as Robert left, Leslie showed his sister the key he had found, though he kept quiet about the book and the letters. Irene's eyes were wide as saucers and she hid her mouth behind her open hands with an «Oooooh!» of mingled surprise and delighted anticipation.

\- So it wasn’t lost! Where was it? In Daddy’s study?!

\- No, I found it right after breakfast. It was at the bottom of the garden shed drawer. – Leslie lied. He felt a pang of discomfort the moment he lied, but he felt he had to do it. – It was probably forgotten a long time ago. Remember Daddy told us the key has been missing since before the War. It must have ended inside that drawer by accident and no one ever thought of looking for it in there...

Irene clapped her hands excitedly.

\- It's nearly lunch time, and I'm famished, so we cannot go right away, but let's go right after lunch! Silly dog! Oh, look Les, I do believe he's laughing...

The last words had been directed at Jerry. Sensing the excitement, the dog was wagging his tail and running around the hall. Leslie was glad of it, as it took Irene’s attention away from the exact place where he’d found the key. He didn’t like lying, but something made him feel uncomfortable with the idea of sharing what he’d found with his little sister.

As soon as they ate the last spoonful of the apple crumble Irene had baked under Cook’s supervision, they stuffed two bottles of ginger beer in Leslie's shoulder bag and ran to the boathouse. Cook tried to convince them to rest for a bit but as she was still uttering the last word they were already out of her sight.

They ran all the way, an overexcited Jerry in front of them, barking madly and going back a few times to assure they were following him. When they finally came to the closed door, and although most of the path was shaded by trees, they were out of breath, hot and sweaty. Irene could hardly stand still as her brother searched in his pockets for the new found key.

\- Hurry up, Les... Oh, do hurry up!

He was putting up a bit of a show, really. He had been to his room before lunch to leave the book and the letters secure in his own desk. Not that he wasn't curious about the locked boathouse room, but he was much more curious about the letters.

\- Here it is! Now, don't build your hopes too high, it looks like it's the one, but it may not be, mind you...

Still, as he spoke, he tried the key on the keyhole and it fitted. With both hands he tried to turn it. Slowly, with an annoying screech, the key moved half a turn, then three quarters, then a full turn, they heard a mild «click», Irene whispered «Oooooh, it's opening!», and with another irritating high pitched creaking sound the old door oppened a few inches . With a delighted bark Jerry ran through the gap and disappeared inside.

 


	6. An uncomfortable secret and stewed plums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leslie is no saint and reads what was never meant for his eyes. It's the hottest summer since 1900 and Clive overthinks as usual. And then, of course, the door oppened and neither Leslie nor Irene make sense of what they found behind it.

Leslie had let two days pass without even looking at the papers he'd brought from Daddy's study. It felt wrong. He was so worried and divided about what he was about to do that he almost forgot The Communist Manifesto, and how sad he had felt for finding himself a mere petty- bourgeois socialist. But his parents would be back in a few days and he had promised himself he'd return the book, the letters and the key to their original place before their arrival. He thought of retuning then untouched, he really meant to, but in the end he couldn't.

First, he sat on his bed, late at night, staring at the small leather-bound book, before returning it to the drawer in his own desk. How small and unimportant it looked, a thin volume bearing a text he couldn't yet read, but one that his father had certainly loved, judging from the number of scribbled notes. Then, the next night, he opened it and looked for hours at the name written in his father's neat hand, the peculiar way of drawing the capital D in Durham with a little loop at the top, the slight upward stroke at the end of the m, just like Leslie remembered from the post cards his father sent him during his French holidays, from the letters he'd received at school. He felt a lump in his throat, a silly emotion at the idea of young Daddy writing his name on the front page of a new book almost twenty-five years ago. Twenty-five years, an eternity, more than Leslie's whole life so far... That night, he slept with the book under his pillow.

The following day, Irene decided she was going to pick plums, because Daddy liked stewed plums at breakfast, so he put the book in his pocket, wrapped a couple of sandwiches and an apple in a clean napkin, and took Jerry for a walk in the woods, ending at the boathouse.

As he opened the door, he smiled at the memory of their «adventure» some days before, entering the mysterious closed room. It had been every bit as mysterious as they could have expected, for none of them could make heads nor tails of what they'd found, and at the same time oddly disappointing, for it was nothing, really.

Strangely enough, the small room was rather clean, only years of undisturbed dust lay on the few items that furnished it, and only a handful of spiders had decorated the corners with their webs. There had been a fire in the fireplace and the remaining ashes and charred bits of wood, as if the fire had been carefully extinguished, were still there. Someone had improvised a divan of sorts from the cushions and the rugs, much the same way they had done themselves in the other room, and it was visible someone had slept in there, more than once: there were twin visible depressions on the old cushion used as pillow, though two persons couldn't really fit in the narrow divan. A white tea mug had been left on the mantelpiece, and a crowbar was still weighting down a pair of thick woollen socks that had been hung there to dry by the fire and were now half eaten by the moths. On the floor, by the far top of the makeshift bed they found an old-fashioned stiff collar, with one steel and mother of pearl stud still attached.

\- Was this someone's room? Do you think so, Les?

\- Might be. There used to be a gamekeeper and an under gamekeeper before the War, I heard Cook say. Maybe one of them slept in here sometimes. He obviously couldn't live here all the time...

\- Would a gamekeeper wear a stiff collar with mother of pearl studs? Or an under gamekeeper…?

\- Maybe on Sundays... I don't know. Anyway, there's nothing mysterious in here...

Irene faced him, eyebrows raised in surprise. It was all like a big jigsaw puzzle with too many pieces missing, and the ones left didn't connect, making it impossible to guess the picture.

\- Everything is mysterious in here, you mean, just not really interesting. The gamekeeper, or was it the under gamekeeper? pulled out his Sunday shirt collar in a rage, and vanished, leaving behind his woollen socks and his tea mug, but taking care to put out the fire...! Sounds a lot like those surrealist poems you told me about.

Leslie had smiled at this. Irene had again hit the nail right on the head.

\- I say we lock it again and return the key to its lost state. We have the other room and I wouldn't want to have to clean this one as well. Why disturb the poor moths?

Irene had agreed. Baynes was taking her to the village to have her bicycle’s chain fixed, and that was way more important than an abandoned and uninteresting room.

He sat on the piled cushions and took the book out of his pocket. Jerry, sensing something odd, came to rest his head on Leslie's knee, his honey coloured eyes staring adoringly at the boy.

\- What do you say, Jerry? Should I read Daddy's letters? He'll never know, unless I tell him... He may not even remember he kept them in that drawer. God knows how long ago that was...

\- Woof... - replied the dog.

\- I know. I shouldn't, I know that, but I want to so much... I'll never tell him, and I'll probably forget all about them in a few days, anyway... - and although he knew he was making up lame excuses, he took the papers out of the book.

The small note was just half a sheet of letter paper folded twice. It had no date, just a few lines.

_«I’m sending you the key to the flat. The bigger one is from the boathouse, Alec had it with him. I’ve paid what there was to be paid and instructed Mrs. Allen to clean after we’ve left. I’m sorry to disturb you. It won’t happen again. Good-bye. M.»_

Mrs Allen still did the cleaning, the washing and ironing for Daddy when he was staying in London, so the flat mentioned in the note had to be the same. But who was M.? Why had he returned the flat’s key? And who was Alec who had the boathouse key with him? Why had M. paid what was to be paid? How puzzling!

The letter was still inside the envelope. The paper was old and yellowed, and the sheet seemed to have been folded and unfolded many times, as it was almost tearing there. It looked older than the note, but it was the same hand, an almost imperceptibly slanted cursive, very regular, the hand of an educated person who probably did a good deal of writing. On the lower right corner there was the mark of a dirty thumb and around the middle fold there was a couple of smudged words, as if the letter had been wet there, maybe by a glass of water carelessly put on top of the written page.

_«Dear Clive,_

_Still no word from you, so here is my news._

_I'm practicing a regimen of severe self-discipline. Our Wednesdays and our week-ends I spend in the darkest»_ – the word was smudged, and he could only make out it started with an r and ended in an s, regions maybe? - « _of Bermondsey with the dockers»_ – smudged too but still readable - « _lads at the mission._

_It's a far cry from our metropolitan pleasures. I am supposed to be teaching them the gentle art of boxing. More often than not, I get the pummelling. Preferable to the pummelling you gave me at the Wigmore Hall, ha, ha..._

_Most of the other evenings I spend working through that reading list you once gave me._

_Clive, I'm so worried at not hearing from you. I get no sleep worrying, for fear that you've fallen ill again. I've looked out your connections and would expect you back by Tuesday week. Wire if you can on reaching Dover. I don't have to tell you how much I miss you._

_M»_

The date was from the late Spring of 1912, and the letter had been sent to Greece. 1912! He knew Daddy and Mummy had met in Greece, in 1912. Leslie could hear the words in his head. It was a young person's letter, he was almost certain, it lacked the formality, the polite and empty niceties of older people's writing. M. had most likely written it in an impulse, using the words that came to his mind as they came, much the same way Leslie wrote to Mummy and Daddy from school. That small letter hadn't been previously drafted, it couldn't have been, there was an absurd honesty about it. With a few words of endearment, it might even have been a love letter.

Anyway, M. was definitely a man. A woman wouldn't teach «the gentle art of boxing» to dockers lads. He felt a great surge of relief. It would have been unbearable to think Daddy had been exchanging letters with another woman at the same time he was courting Mummy. All the letter told him was that Daddy had a friend back in 1912 who lost sleep worrying about him and who complained about a pummelling at the Wigmore Hall. It had to be a metaphor of some kind, Leslie couldn't imagine his father engaging in a real fight at a concert hall, not even when he was in his twenties.

By the tone of the letter, Leslie could tell his father and this man had been great friends.  Daddy had brought the letter back from Greece and had kept it for over twenty years. Why had he never heard of this M. person? Maybe M. and Daddy had had a quarrel of some kind? The short note he had read first sounded cold and impersonal after the passionate letter. It ended with what looked like final words, the end of something. « _I’m sorry to disturb you. It won’t happen again. Good-bye.»._ On the other hand, they were perfectly polite albeit cold. Maybe they had just drifted apart. There was no way to know...

Leslie though about his own friends. Did he have real friends? Was there any fellow at school who would lose sleep over Leslie being ill? Or miss him more than he could put in words? Or even write him a letter? He got on fairly well with half a dozen class mates, and was on rather friendly terms with Christian, the young printer's apprentice he had met at the Mechanic’s Institute, but would he consider treasuring a letter from any of them for twenty years if he ever received one? Probably not, he had to admit to himself.

He carefully folded the fragile piece of paper and kept it back in its envelope. He was troubled by a growing feeling of guilt, of having done something very wrong in reading those letters. They weren't meant for his eyes. He couldn't forget the words now he had seen them. All he could do was return both the letters and the book to the place where he had found them, and never talk about it to anyone. Daddy had hidden them for some reason. And even if Daddy hadn't actually hidden them but only forgotten about them, they weren't meant for Leslie's eyes. Daddy had the right to his privacy.

Jerry was looking up at him, detecting something wrong. Leslie ran his fingers through the dog's silky hair, right behind the ears, where Jerry liked a good scratch.

\- I've done something bad, Jerry. - he admitted – I wish I hadn't read those letters.

With a muffled «woof» Jerry laid his head on Leslie's leg. The boy leaned forward to rest his own head on the dog.

\- No one will ever know it, but I'll always know... I’ll have to live with it, I guess…

\- Woof…

*******

Since they had entered the Blue Train at Juan-Les-Pins, the evening before, Clive had felt the holiday mood gradually leave him. It wasn’t a bad feeling, far from that, he loved home and had missed the children, but he knew he would begin to grow increasingly restless after a couple of days and would have to go to London for a week or so, to settle down again and to be with Robert.

Robert would be at the door waiting to help his brother with the bags and trunks and would smile, and maybe wink at him if he felt it was safe. He would greet him with his usual enthusiasm – Glad to have you back, sir! -  and there would be all of Clive’s favourite food for tea, including the brown bread he liked so much, and Robert would have bought that morning.  «I can’t complain…», he thought «How many men are as lucky as I am? »

Anne was leafing through a magazine, clearly tired and paying it no attention.  Booking a sleeping compartment saved them a day, and they always slept wonderfully on the train, but it still meant many travelling hours. Clive gave another look to the newspaper he’d bought at the station. Strange and silly news from Germany. Burning a French flag, how infantile! Still not all the news from Germany were as silly as that. Mabel had been telling Anne about more disturbing stuff her friends, both American and French, had reported. People disappearing, prison camps and such. Bad business the whole thing. He got up an opened the window to let in some air.

It was very hot. The paper had an article about how this was proving to be the hottest summer since 1900, and he believed it. Absurdly, maybe because he had been mentally composing a few paragraphs to write in his journal that evening, he remembered the first summer after his marriage, and Maurice, and how it had rained on an off all through August.

Who’d be at the station, he wondered. Baynes, of course. Maybe the children. They were bringing them a couple of French books, and how they had amused themselves in Paris looking for the right ones!

\- Clive…?

He snapped out of his daydreaming.

\- Yes, dear…?

Anne had put down her magazine.

\- I was wondering… You’ll want to go to London after we’ve settled, right?

\- Just a week, to meet some people before summer ends. Why do you ask? Do you want to go with me?

She smiled, taking care not to laugh openly. There was a subtle hint of alarm in Clive’s voice, as if he feared what she was about to say. Sometimes she wished he was a little less polite.

\- No, good heavens! It’s too hot and there’s nothing to do in London in this weather. I had a whole different plan…

She paused for a couple of minutes, to allow Clive some time to feel relieved. Then she went on:

\- I thought… You’ll be going on a Monday, as you always do.  I could take the children on the train and we’d meet you on Saturday. We would spend the weekend together, take them out to lunch, go to a Museum, send for dinner… spend Sunday afternoon at Pippa’s, she has complained that we never visit, and she is right, you know she is. Then, on Monday I’d take Irene to buy new shoes for school, and Leslie needs shirts and underwear… Robert might drive me and the children to the train after lunch. Don’t you think it could be fun? And you won’t have to change your plans…

There wasn’t really much he could say. It was a reasonable enough proposal. And it would most likely be fun for the children. They were almost there, and Anne was already collecting their hand luggage. The train screeched, beginning to slow down. She looked out of the window.

\- Oh, look, Clive, there’s Baynes! He’s all by himself, so you better see if the trunks are properly unloaded…

*******

The table was set for tea with all of Daddy's and Mummy's favourites. Robert had brought brown bread from the village baker's and a jar of the strawberry jam Daddy was so fond of. There were Irene's stewed plums, and Cook had baked peach cobbler, because it was Mummy's favourite cake. Baynes had already left with the car. They would be arriving any minute.

Leslie had returned the key and the book with the letters inside to the bottom of the desk drawer. It had been ridiculously difficult to do. He had slept again with the book under his pillow, and had come down early in the morning, hoping to find no one and be able to put the things back in the drawer unnoticed. He had, of course, completely forgotten it was Monday and his parents would be arriving by tea time. 

Every person in the house was up and about doing something, and there were people everywhere. As he was going down the last steps he had seen Clarkson leaving Daddy's study, where he had just been to open the French doors and air the place. Leslie had thought of going in fast, put the book in the drawer and leave. As he had stepped inside, he’d heard Millie's voice.

\- Is that you, Robert?

She was right beside the desk, all bent down to clean something under it. When she didn't get any answer, she had looked up and seen Leslie at the door.

\- Oh, master Leslie, I'm so sorry...

He had felt his face grow hot.

\- It's no big deal, I was looking for Mr. Clarkson... – he had lied. It seemed he had done nothing but lie since he'd found the wretched book.

\- He was here, sir, but he left a minute ago...

\- It's all right, it was nothing urgent, I'll talk to him after breakfast. - he needed time to concoct a plausible reason to be looking for Clarkson at such an ungodly hour.

The book was in his pocket and he had felt everyone could notice it. It was still too early for breakfast, so he had gone for a walk with Jerry. The book weighted a ton and he felt almost as heavy with guilt.

When he’d returned, he had entered the house trough the French doors, hoping to be able to put the book back unnoticed, only to find Irene trying to catch Fox who had hidden under the desk.

\- There you are! – she was up in a moment, Fox in her arms – Clarkson is looking for you…

Good! Now he was going to have to invent yet another lie, to justify why he had been looking for Clarkson before. He’d have to come back after breakfast and had begun to feel ridiculous, besides all the other unwelcome feelings.

He had looked for the butler in the morning room and had made up something along the way.

\- Good-morning, master Leslie. Millie told me you were looking for me earlier…

\- Good-morning. I had quite forgotten Daddy and Mummy are arriving today, at tea time. I was just wondering if Baynes has been told about it… But of course, you remembered about it too…

Clarkson had smiled. The young master was growing up. The year before he had asked some ten times how long it was till his parents arrived, and now he was taking care of the details of the arrival. One year was a long time…

\- All has been taken care of, master Leslie. Would you like to accompany Baynes to the station?

\- I would love to, but I think I’d better not. My sister wouldn’t like to be left to wait…

For a moment, Leslie had wished every single person in the house was going to the station and leave him alone just enough time to put the wretched book and the key back in the drawer. The whole thing was turning into a nightmare. After Daddy’s arrival it would be even harder to do.

He had found Irene already sitting at the breakfast table having eggs and sausages and reading a letter she’d received on the morning post. Unlike Leslie, Irene was extremely sociable. She had a group of friends and exchanged letters with them.

\- Les, listen to this, Marie is coming back next week. She’s finished her drawing classes and is bringing home two complete albums with what must be wonderful sketches. And she will have heaps of stories to tell… Oh, just listen to this… _«You’ll want to know about London and the Museums, I expect, so here are some advances. Papa took me to the British Museum. It’s huge! We walked miles and miles and Papa assured me we saw but a tiny fraction of it all. Oh, you would love it! It’s just like a History class coming alive! We saw some winged bull-like statues, Assyrian I believe Papa told me, as big as a house and with men’s faces and beards. And five legs, imagine that. They guarded the gates of some city and were sculpted with five legs, so they would always look perfect and complete no matter if you’re looking from the front or from the side. »_ Sounds grand, doesn’t it?

\- It does, yes… - but he was distracted. He couldn’t forget about the book, nor the key.

After breakfast, Irene had gone up to her room to keep the letter. Leslie had sat for a moment longer, trying to think of a way to put the things back.

«I wish I had never opened that drawer in the first place. And I wish I hadn’t read those letters.  If only I could forget about it…! »

In the end, things had solved themselves quite unexpectedly. He had seen Martha carrying a big vase with carnations and he had offered to put it in the study for her. As she had four other things to do, she had been very grateful and gone on to do the next thing. Leslie had just gone in the study, put the vase on the mantelpiece and then carefully placed the book with the letters inside it and the key at the bottom of the drawer. He had felt rather relieved after that, but still couldn’t forget he had done something wrong.

The waiting for his parents after their French holidays was always both exciting and painful. This time it was more painful than anything else. He was feeling guilty and wondered how he would feel facing his father while keeping that secret. He had never kept a real secret from his father.

\- Leslie, they’re arriving! – Irene was running to the door. Leslie’s heart leaped. He was about to discover how he was going to feel for the rest of his days.

The car stopped by the door and Baynes got out to open the door. Daddy got out first. He was looking very good, healthy, rested and suntanned, as he always did after each of those weeks in the French Riviera and had a big smile on his face as he helped Mummy out of the car. Mummy, of course, was beautiful, every bit as beautiful as she always looked. Leslie doubted there was anyone as beautiful as his mother. Irene, forgetting she was supposed be behave like a young lady, was jumping up and down with excitement. Robert was helping Baynes with the luggage.

\- Leslie…!

Thank God! He looked straight into his father’s eyes and felt nothing bad. What was the real importance of two letters, a few lines written twenty years ago? Or a rusty key to an old room? He had done something wrong but nothing bad had come out of it. He wasn’t going to confess to Daddy, but only because he wouldn’t want to disturb him. If his father had hidden those things, it had certainly been for a good reason. If he had simply forgotten about them, so much the better. Maybe he didn’t want to be remembered of whatever it was.

\- Mummy! You look lovely…!

He was now almost as tall as her. He hugged her tightly, her hair tickling his nose. Leslie stretched out his right arm to hug his father as well.

\- Oh, I am glad you’re back! We missed you both so much, didn’t we Irene?

\- We did! I even made stewed plums for you, Daddy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Forster's book, Clive tears to pieces, at the top of a mountain, the last letter he receives from Maurice in Greece. I used the words of the letter Clive reads in the film, transcribed by me from my absurdly blurred old DVD. The sound is good though, and I got lots of experience transcribing the recordings of oral literature collected in fieldwork at the University, decades ago. Clive does not tear that letter to pieces, he holds it between his teeth, before unfolding it, as he reads a book, a thin book, his beloved Plato I presume.


	7. Sleeping at the boathouse, sunset and Plato's Symposium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leslie and Irene spend a night at the boathouse. Leslie has been reading a lot, and not at all what an MP's son is expected to read. Clive writes in his journal and tries to make sense of how time passes and things change. Or don't...

August was nearly over. How quickly the long days had slipped away, Leslie thought as he sat on his divan in the boathouse, scribbling random notes in a small notebook. He had digested the Communist Manifesto and found it lacking in more ways than one. He wasn’t ready to swallow it all, as some kind of wonder pill. There were some very good ideas there, but there were things he couldn’t agree with as well. He had searched Daddy’s bookshelves for a translation of Plato’s _Symposium_ , found one and read it. It proved a heavy reading, he got to the end on pure stubborn perseverance, it left him quite intrigued and offered more new questions than actual answers. In different ways, both books had revealed completely new worlds to him, and made him grow. Some kind of instinct prevented him from discussing Plato with his sister, but Marx was thoroughly dissected by them over biscuits and lemonade.

They had been to London for a whole week-end, and it had been great fun. They had travelled by train with Mummy, something that beat travelling to school with a crowd of noisy school fellows. Robert had picked them up at the station, and it had been an adventure settling for the next couple of nights in Daddy’s small flat. Irene had the spare room and Leslie had a folding divan in the study.

\- It’s almost like camping! – Irene had said, clapping her hands at the arrangements. She was used to camping outings at school.

They had been out to lunch, then to the British Museum, where they had searched (and found, and admired) the big winged bull-like statues, with human faces, and elaborately curled beards, and five legs, just like Marie had described them.

On Sunday, they had all slept till late, had a big breakfast – so big they had decided to skip lunch – and had spent the afternoon at Aunt Pippa’s, playing all kinds of silly board games with their cousin Maud, talking and laughing with her, and secretly enjoying the fact that her two brothers had been invited to stay at a friend’s country house for the whole week.

On Monday, Mummy had taken them both out to the shops, to buy the new things they would be needing for school, and then Robert had driven them to the station, and they had caught the train back home. Daddy had stayed in London for two more days only.

Leslie had been to a little bookshop and bought a second-hand book by some Russian fellow, one Peter Kropotkin, but had been so discreet about it that only his sister had noticed. He had spotted the book, quite by chance, on the shop window, as they were entering the tea-room, and while they waited for the waiter to bring the tea, he had asked Mummy if he could just take a look at the books. As he came back some ten or fifteen minutes later, lying boldly about not having seen anything interesting, no one suspected. Irene, though, had seen the little brown paper package in his pocket.

He had begun reading the new book while still digesting the _Symposium_. The title had attracted him more than any other aspect. _Mutual Aid_ , it had such a nice resonance. Those were the exact words he had been looking for. The fact that it had been written by a Russian, and a revolutionary on top, so much so that even the Bolsheviks thought he was too radical, had been the second thing to attract his attention. Christian had mentioned the man once or twice, pursing his lips in disgust, and though Christian was his friend, Leslie was aware of how much of a sectarian he was.  The almost religious atmosphere was one of the tings that had kept him from wholeheartedly diving into communism.

The book had proved to be heavy stuff but highly informative and very clear. It seemed to make sense in a very sensible way (even if it sounded redundant when put in such words, he’d scribbled on the end of one chapter): if there is cooperation instead of competition, the outcome is better for a greater number of individuals.

He had discussed it with Irene, and she had totally agreed with him. He decided to look for more books by that man to read. The last paragraphs of the Communist Manifesto had left a bitter aftertaste:

_“The Communists disdain to conceal their views and aims. They openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions. Let the ruling classes tremble at a Communistic revolution. The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win._

_Working Men of All Countries, Unite!”_

He was forced to conceal his views, and would be for a few years yet, if he wanted to save himself a good deal of trouble and to spare his father’s feelings. He refused to openly declare anything of the sort. A “forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions” was not, could not be the only way to a fair society. The self-evident truth that proletarians had nothing to lose and much to gain was downright frightening, and even more frightening was the fact that though it had been written and published for so many years, very few people were aware of it. He had spent more than a couple of sleepless nights thinking about all this.

The Borenius family had been to visit. Marie, with her two albums of drawings and all kinds of interesting things to tell about London and the Art School, Clarice and «the little ones» as they all called them, all looking very brown, rosy-cheeked and healthy, and the reverend, extremely proud of his Marie’s talent and looking rested from his afternoons at the British Library.

The children had had a glorious afternoon, and even Leslie had taken turns on the swing and played catch, forgetting for a while his political readings and his worries.

***

The sun was almost touching the horizon. The shadows of the tall trees grew longer. Around the lake, everything was preparing for the night and all kinds of little sounds echoed in the silence. Crickets chirped merrily and a nightingale was singing, his sweet melody falling like a summer rain, very gently. Now and then a fish would jump, sending circles of tiny waves rippling through the calm water. Water lilies were closing for the night.

A faint light flickered through the windows on one side of the boathouse. The other was quiet and dark. Inside the little room, a small fire crackled merrily on the fireplace. A grey and blue enamel jug, full of water, had been placed close to the fire, to warm the water. On the clean floor, a rug had been carefully laid with a thermos bottle, a couple of mugs and a round tin. Jerry, very well behaved, was lying on the rug next to Leslie’s divan, half-asleep but still adoringly surveying the boy. Irene was sitting on the second makeshift divan, putting on a very odd pair of thick woollen socks. She had knitted them herself during last year’s summer holidays to practise what she had learned at school, but as the wool her mother had given her – the leftover ball from Daddy’s cardigan – hadn’t been enough, she had been forced to make do with what she could find. So, one of the socks was of a grey-blue and the other was striped in the same blue, red, and white, from the remains of an old jumper. The girl loved her mismatched socks and always wore them to bed in the cold weather.

\- Cold feet, Irene? – asked Leslie.

He was sitting cross-legged on his own divan, wearing dark blue cotton pyjamas and a light jumper. The girl looked questioningly at him, and then smiled.

\- No, neither about the sleepover nor real cold feet. I couldn’t find my slippers. Fox hides them all the time!

She was wearing pyjamas too, in once-burgundy-now-faded-brownish-red cotton, Leslie’s old pyjamas, and a knitted cardigan over it. Fox had preferred to stay at home, where he could prowl around the silent house all night and curl to sleep in his soft blanket in the morning.

They were going to spend the night in the boathouse, and it had not been easy to get their parents to agree. Irene had had to use all her wit and Leslie all his calm reasoning powers. In the end, Mummy had given in, and after that it had been easy to break the last of Daddy’s arguments.

\- Oh, very well, do sleep at the boathouse if you really want to…! If you must, you must. Do it as soon as possible, tonight or next, before the nights begin to cool. And take Jerry with you…

Since there was no time like the present, they both started planning right away.

\- There’s biscuits in the tin, we took a fresh batch yesterday – Irene was making a list – There’s plenty of firewood, and there’s a matchbook in the fireplace tin. Oh, and lots of newspaper strips, I spent most of Monday afternoon twisting newspaper strips, just in case.

\- Do you think we should take something hot to drink? It’s not cold but something hot still tastes nice…

They had come directly after dinner, carrying their pyjamas, and all kinds of bits and bobs in a backpack, a frantic Jerry running in front of them. The little room had become quite homey with their additions over the summer. Once or twice, Irene had even expressed her belief that they could live there for a couple of days.

\- Do you know that some poor people would find this room much better than their houses?

Irene looked up again. She had been folding her clothes. Leslie was very serious, gloomy even.

\- Oh, Les, I know… you’ve told me before… I’m sorry it upsets you so much…

\- It’s not that it upsets me. Well, it does, actually, but it is way more than that. There are so many people living in such appalling conditions, working so hard and getting so miserably paid, and once you know about it, it sits constantly at the back of your mind…

\- And you can do nothing about it, right? – they had had that same conversation before.

\- I’m only a boy, and a rather pampered one… I so want to get older and be able to do something!

Irene looked up, with knitted eyebrows and a half smile.

\- So, you want to be a Politician, like Daddy? It sounds absurdly boring, let me tell you. I want to be a mechanic, it’s settled. Robert promised to show me how the car’s engine works… - she took off her socks and wiggled her naked toes – Oh, look! The sky is turning pink! Come, let’s go out and watch the sunset… Come on, Jerry!

They watched the sun set over the hay fields, until the red-golden light turned to dark blue and violet, leaving only a very thin edge of light blue around the horizon.

\- How beautiful this place is! – Leslie exclaimed in a soft, low voice. Under his hand he felt Jerry’s cold nose. The dog produced a low “woof” and licked the boy’s hand.

They returned to the little room in the semi darkness. Irene used the warm water to wash her dusty feet, and after drying them and putting her mismatched socks on once more, she went outside to throw away the water and rinse the basin. They had a mug of hot cocoa and a few biscuits, and then they put out the candle and lay in the dark, looking at the dying fire and listening to the night sounds.

\-  I think I shan’t sleep… - Irene whispered, seconds before her deep breathing indicated she had fallen asleep.

***

Sitting at his desk, Clive was thinking. The children were spending the night at the boathouse. Anne had already gone to bed, but he wasn’t sleepy and wanted to note a few things down in his journal.

 He was thinking how much Leslie seemed to have grown during the summer! Not only was he taller – he was now as tall as his father and would probably still grow a few inches before he stopped – but he was amazingly more mature.

He spent most of his free time reading. Clive had noticed he was reading the Symposium, and had been sorely tempted to intervene, but in the end thought he’d better not. Let him read and make up his mind. He had always been so sensible! He read other books, books he’d brought with him from school and others he’d probably bought with his pocket money, Clive was well aware of that, but chose again not to interfere. Leslie was too clever, he’d be even more keen to read something if he was forbidden to do so.

He remembered Maurice, and how Plato had changed him. He had been a good looking fellow from the start, but after that summer of reading he’d returned to Cambridge with a different kind of beauty, as if he’d been illuminated from within. A nearly inaudible sigh escaped Clive’s lips. He could now recall those years without shame or sorrow. Having looked death in the face and, above all, loving Robert and being loved by Robert in return had changed him.

The blank page was staring at him. He took his pen and put it to paper, a gesture that would always bring him a feeling of inner peace.

_Maurice,_

_Leslie has been reading Plato. In a good translation, of course, he hasn’t learned that much Greek – after all, he’s only fifteen. It’s probably early, but he was always a precocious boy. He’s also reading politics, I’m almost certain, though I have no idea of what he is actually reading. From the brown paper covered books he carries everywhere, I deduce he thinks I wouldn’t approve of them._

He paused for a moment. Strange, he thought, how fast children grow and start being real individuals, with dreams and desires of their own, creating a space where parent’s no longer have the power to follow.

_Both Leslie and Irene have spent the best part of their summer in the old boathouse, reading and idling, swimming and sunbathing, writing and drawing, and though I have the growing feeling that time runs faster each year, they return home for dinner with dreamy eyes and the look of someone who has just lived half a life in a single afternoon. Just as it happened in old fairy-tales, my children have found a sort of enchanted country where the adults are not allowed and where they no longer belong to us, little by little._

_Anne smiles at my existential doubts and says it’s only natural that they grow up and get more and more independent. Robert says I ought to be proud of how clever my children are, and how good, and sound. He is right, they both are right, but I cannot help this little nagging anxiety about what’s really going on inside their heads. You would undoubtedly tell me to let them be._

He sometimes found himself missing Maurice. He had never managed to build another close friendship like that, one that encompassed all aspects of his life, a friend he could turn to for help on every occasion. During the War, he had met a few interesting men and even built some close, even devoted, friendships, but he had seen most of them die and in the darkest days of his slow and painful recovery he had chosen to forget them. After the War, he’d returned to his natural loneliness and in no time Anne and the children were filling his life with meaning and hope.

After that, his political career had naturally meant he had no real friends, just fellow party member or oppositionists. There were a few men he liked talking to, but he had no real friends.

There was Robert, of course, but Robert was much more than a friend. The kind of deep involvement he had with Robert – and had always adamantly refused to have with Maurice – made all the difference.

 _I sometimes miss you._ – he wrote – _Maybe that is the real reason why I still address my journal entries to you. Here, I know you would smile, and maybe think «Poor old Clive, always the same theorist, covering himself in a blanket of words to avoid seeing the world around him…»_

He kept his writing things and went to the french doors to close them. All was silent, that country silence, peopled with the little natural sounds one comes to consider part of the silence. The slight breeze brought the odour of fresh hay, warm grass, and dry earth.  The sky was velvety black and full of bright stars. A perfect crescent moon was fully visible. Clive almost forgot himself, lost in the warm beauty of the peaceful summer night. A low cough brought him back to the study where he stood.

\- I’m sorry, sir, but will you be wanting a cup of tea?

Clarkson was standing at the door. Clive bolted the last window and answered.

\- No, thank you, Clarkson. I think I’ll go to bed, it’s rather late, isn’t it?

\- Just a little past eleven, sir…

\- Dear me, no wonder I feel so sleepy. Good-night, Clarkson.

\- Good-night, sir.


	8. Is there even an answer?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer is over. Leslie and Irene feel that childhood is over as well. Something has ended. Maybe something new is about to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the idea that I'd be able to write this during last summer. It took me almost a year to complete. Now, as I read it all, it feels disconnected, a bit like memories flow into our minds. So it probably works...  
> Thanks to the ones who kept reading.

Leslie sat in the train and carefully took a brown paper packet from his pocket. He had bought another book. More Kropotkin. He had liked the fellow’s writing and his ideal of mutual aid. I made all the sense, much more than hard competition and blind struggle.

Christian was going to make all kinds of objections, but Christian was a terrible sectarian, and having read the Manifesto, Leslie was aware of how that seemed to be demanded as a part of being a communist. He couldn’t do it, blind submission would never be his thing, and he meant to pay no attention to the objections, he had good arguments to dismantle every single one. He’d talk to Christian, of course, they got on pretty well and no man is beyond a change of heart. He was going to have a couple of talks around school, there were those two fellows who discussed politics and a few odd loners, he might try those as well. He couldn’t be the only one who worried about those issues, he wasn’t all that singular.

Daddy had dropped him at the station. Robert would be driving Irene to her school next, after leaving Daddy somewhere. Summer was over. A door had closed on his childhood and the key was lost. Really lost this time. He couldn’t go back.

***

While they were packing, Leslie and Irene had been summing up their summer. As they folded clothes and fitted them inside their respective trunks, they raised their voices and talked across the corridor.

\- The London weekend was so good! Just like camping out only much more comfortable…

\- Yes, I slept like a log on that folding bed... I expect I was tired...

\- And the British Museum… I loved that, maybe I’ll pester Daddy to take me there again, on Christmas holidays perhaps…

\- That’s a good idea, you know? I’d like to take another good look at the Greek sculptures…

\- Do you remember when we cleaned the boathouse? It was so hot!

\- Well, we had a good swim in the end, so it was worth it…

\- Yes, I liked the swimming a lot…

\- And your drawing got much better! You really practised it…

\- I’ll miss the boathouse…

The day before they had closed the boathouse. All the rugs and cushions neatly piled and covered with the old tarpaulin, the floor swept, and all the bits and bobs they had taken there during summer carefully sorted out: some brought back to the house, some kept in the corner cupboard.

\- Do you believe we’ll even go back to the boathouse? Next summer, I mean… Come back the way we spent this summer there, to read and discuss, to sleep and talk, to think, to swim…

Leslie stopped what he was doing and stood still with a tie dangling from his hand, thinking. How funny it was that Irene had asked that. He had been thinking how something about that particular summer could never come back. Never before had he felt time stretching so much, and looking back, that month and a half felt like a small eternity. He very much doubted that such a summer would be given twice to anyone. In a sense, both he and Irene were different now. More mature, having felt, for the first time in their lives, the process of building memories and having been touched by the weird sensation that their childhood and the perfect world  they had been living in were coming to an end. Closing that creaking old wooden door had really felt like the end of something.

His silence brought his sister to his room, one boot in each hand.

\- I say, Les, did you hear me?

Clumsily rolling up the necktie, he smiled:

\- Yes, I’m sorry… I was thinking…

\- About…?

\- About your question, really… In answer to it, no, I don’t think we’ll ever go back there. Of course we may go, but it will never be the same.

She laughed and pretended to kick him with one of the boots she was holding.

\- Don’t tell me you are getting premonitions… It doesn’t suit you.

\- Sort of. Don’t you ever get a feeling so strong you are nearly certain you can’t be wrong?

Before even giving the question a thought, she put down her boots and took out of his hands the tie he kept twisting and turning. She rolled it up and placed it inside the trunk, choosing the perfect place for it.  She liked to keep her hands occupied when she was thinking. Then, and as she started rolling up socks, she answered:

\- Once or twice, now I think of it… That was why I asked if you believe we’ll ever have another summer like this. It came to my mind that most probably it was a unique chance and we’ll never do it again. You know, like the gamekeeper who left his Sunday collar and stud, extinguished the fire, and never came back. I’ve been thinking a lot about that.

Though they were alone in the upper floor, Leslie looked around. They had never mentioned the other room after the day they had opened the door, and he had been under the impression that Irene had never given it another thought. He, on the other hand, had not been able to forget about it, not so much because of the absurdity of it all – that really seemed to have captured his sister’s imagination after all – but because of the little nagging guilt that kept troubling him.

\- I feel the same. Maybe this is what growing up feels like. Or maybe that boathouse has some kind of magic, I don’t know… - he felt strange pronouncing the word, as it offended his keen sense of propriety, and yet it was the right word. Certain as he was, at a conscious level, that magic did not exist, he had had the feeling of something beyond normal understanding, akin to the fairy tales where you lost track of time and of everyday life.

During those enchanted summer days, he had acquired the habit of going to the boathouse to read, to think, to write in his notebook, to look at the lake, to make himself a cup of tea and sit on the dry ground, hands wrapped around the hot mug and just be there, in the sun. He felt good there, he felt free from the constraints of home and adult family members – no matter how he loved them, they sometimes weighed him down. At the boathouse he could free himself of Daddy’s political career, of what others might think of his political views, when and if he ever managed to build his own political views.

\- Magic...? Oh, Les you are rather strange today... - she rolled the last pair of socks – The funny thing is that I kind of see what you mean. I wouldn't call it magic, but it was extraordinary all the same...

\- Yes… It must be what growing up feels like.

Irene presented him with a small pile of neatly rolled up socks and picked up her own boots. At the door, she turned back, knitted brows and a mildly angry look on her face.

\- I don’t think I like this feeling. I don’t think I’ll like being grown up. If I had a say, I would grow up slower, much, much slower… and would come back home to go the boathouse every summer for years and years still…

As she left the room followed by Fox who had been sniffing around, Leslie couldn’t help agreeing with her, though he had a different angle. He wanted to be able to return to the boathouse too. And naturally he would have wanted to control his own growth as well, though not to slow it, but to do the opposite. He wanted to be an adult and do something to change the world, and the idea of the years that stretched before him was almost discouraging. He could do nothing, he was only a boy.

\- Hey, Les… Here, take this to remember...

Irene had returned and was holding out a small album. The sketches she had made during the holidays, from that laughable portrait of him sleeping, to the water lilies, the blackberries, and the little fireplace.

\- Don’t you want to keep it yourself?

\- I’d probably lose it, you know me. It’s safer in your hands.

*******

Anne looked at the dining room table, all set and ready for dinner. Next day, she would return to her solitary meals in her little study. Clive was going back to London and the children were going back to school.

Since Irene had started to go away to school, the year before, it always took her a couple of days to get used to the quiet after the holidays. The beginning of the school year was the worst. The long summer break brought the whole house to life, and the first school term, maybe because it started with long summer days and ended in winter, seemed so long!

She knew she had a lot to do. At the house, the dining room and the sitting room must be cleaned and closed till Christmas; she’d have to go around the pantry with Cook to see what preserves needed to be eaten soon; the mincemeat jars had to be prepared well in advance so they’d be good for Christmas; since there was no gardener the garden must be made ready for winter with the precious help of Baynes, who really had green thumbs; she wanted to go through the gardening catalogues to order some new roses; there was the hothouse to tend to, she’d have to take care of the strawberry plants and prepare the vases for the new tomato plants.

At the village, the Montessori classroom needed a few things replaced or renewed, books, beads, and pencils, and all those things must be ordered; the French books she had ordered, had arrived some days before and had to be unpacked, cleaned and kept on the shelves; she’d need to arrange with Bella for the French lessons to fit in the class schedule without disrupting the work… Oh, she had full days ahead, yes! But still she felt a little sad and abandoned when her children left the nest and returned to school.

Once or twice, Clive would take a few days off and maybe spend a week at Pendersleigh, but even then, they had their meals in Anne’s little room. There was no need to reopen the big dining room and overload the servants with needless work.  The idea made her smile. Oh, she liked those days with Clive, when she sat by the fire in his study, reading or knitting, and they talked or he wrote and read, and they just basked in each other’s company. Anne felt a little sentimental, something that happened when holidays were just about to end.

The sound of feet on the stairs brought her back.

\- Mummy! You’ve been crying?

She had tears in her eyes, then… She wiped them and smiled.

\- No, dear, not really… I was just thinking how silent this place is going to be for the next months, only me and the servants, and Fox, and an occasional visit from Jerry when he manages to give Clarkson the slip… But I’ll soon snap out of it, there’s so much to do! Go see if Daddy is ready, and let’s have dinner, shall we? I believe there’s something special for dessert…

As they walked away to look for Clive in his study, she noticed how grown up they both were. During that summer she had felt, for the first time, that they were no longer children. They made their own decisions, they had cleaned the old boathouse without any help, they had spent entire days there, they had even slept there. They no longer hung on her opinions nor on her help. Leslie was reading tremendously, and she didn’t even know what. Irene had drawn a lot and had not shown her most of it. They had packed for school without asking her to help. Anne made a mental note to tell Clive she believed they had done a good work as parents.

*******

Clive was sitting at his desk, writing in his journal. The following day he’d be returning to London and to his parliamentary duties, and journaling would be next to impossible. This might be his last opportunity to write in peace before Christmas.

_Maurice_

He did miss his friend.

_Summer is nearly over, and I’ll be heading back for London in the morning. The children will be returning to their respective schools and Anne will be staying at Pendersleigh. I used to think she had a dull life, alone with the servants, but she keeps rather busy. She takes care of everything, and it’s literally everything, from the tenants to the garden and the hothouse. She’s wonderful!_

_During this summer I noticed that both my children have grown out of childhood. It’s strange when it finally happens, isn’t it? Well, now that I put the question, rhetorical as it is, I wonder: do you have children?_

What a question to put. Why did he keep asking rhetorical questions to his long lost friend?

_It would always be rhetorical, of course... and here I go again! I must get rid of this habit of discussing every little detail with these pages while pretending I'm actually talking things over with you._

_Still, that's how it is: they are no longer children. And it's both good and sad._

_I'm returning to my London life, with the Parliamentary sessions and committees, with Robert, and the fact that I am writing Parliamentary sessions and Robert on the same line is both disturbing and dangerously exciting. I am a lucky man indeed. Isn't it strange that I, of all people, have been saved from myself by the War, and by the extraordinary love of two amazing people? Who could have foretold it listening to the pompous man who had that absurd talk with you in the dark of that August night? The last thing I remember is you laughing... I miss you, Maurice. But in a good way._

There was a knock on the door, and Irene's voice called:

\- Daddy...?

Clive answered, still writing the last word.

\- Yes, my dear, come in.

\- There's no need, Mummy sent us to warn you it's nearly dinner time.

\- Thank you, then. I'll just keep these papers and go up to change...

**Author's Note:**

> Fragment from «The Communist Manifesto» from https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1845/condition-working-class/ch04.htm


End file.
